


The Book Collection

by Ferryman



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Books, Falling In Love, First Time, Literature, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-15 11:55:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7221382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ferryman/pseuds/Ferryman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson finds pornography in Holmes's bedroom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Коллекция книг](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7812115) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Russian translation by Little_Unicorn also available [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4683701).
> 
> The works cited are listed at the end of each chapter.

On the evening on which this story begins, in the summer of 1889, my old schoolfellow Percy Phelps and I were alone in my old lodgings at Baker Street, impatiently waiting for Holmes’s arrival next day. I presume that some of my faithful readers will remember these details from the affair of The Naval Treaty.

It had been an extremely weary day for my friend and me, so when he finally decided to go to bed, I hastily sent a note to my wife and prepared to borrow Holmes's bedroom for the night, while Phelps took the upstairs bedroom for himself.

After retrieving from my old chest the nightshirt and the change of clothes that I had left there, I entered Holmes’s room and closed the door behind me with a sigh of relief; for although my married life was a constant source of happiness, to be back at Baker Street always felt like a puff of smoke after a week of abstinence.

The unseeing eyes of the framed portraits of criminals hanging off the walls followed me about the room as I prepared myself to sleep. Everywhere papers, books and clothes lay in wild disorder, and I had to step over more than two or three boxes and a Chesebrough Vaseline tin before I could reach the bed, all the while smiling to myself and feeling warmly proud of my familiarity with my friend's ways and habits.

I also noticed for the first time that Holmes's bed was exactly like my old one. Even the coverlet had the same pattern and the same strong smell of tobacco. I laid myself upon it and stretched, bracing myself for a long night of tossing and turning like, presumably, my old school friend was doing upstairs. Nevertheless, I knew that I needed rest, so I resolved to summon sleep by distracting myself from our present troubles. With that idea in my mind, I searched among the books that were on my friend’s night table to see whether I could find something of my liking.

A couple of old history books and a heavy treatise seemed to be miraculously suspended near one corner of the night table, and I lifted them carefully only to discover some octavo books piled below. One of them caught my attention: it looked recently published, with blueish grey wrappers, printed on laid paper with the watermark _Van Gelder_ . It was the eighth volume of a work entitled _My Secret Life_ , published in Amsterdam, no date. Feeling my curiosity piqued, I picked it up and fell back upon the bed.

At first, I turned the pages, glancing lazily through them, but that changed soon afterwards into a frenzy of astonishment until I finally closed it. A burning heat had made its way up to my face, whilst a mass of words crowded my mind: _cunt, licked, prick, frigging, spunk, naked, bum, clitoris_... That was pornography!

Even applying my friend's own methods, I could not find a sound reason for the presence of that kind of book among Holmes's possessions. And on his night table! Thoroughly disconcerted as I was, the only explanation that occurred to me was that it was one of his criminal relics.

I feel bound to say that I was not so prudish as to ignore the existence and circulation of that kind of literature, nor had that been the first time in which such an item had been between my hands. But to find such a blatant evidence of the human condition of my friend was simply out of any realm of possibility.

I sobered up as soon and as best I could and opened it again, feeling like a busybody, and began to read.

The beginning of the first chapter was a collection of bawdy acts between the narrator and a gay woman called Sarah, which soon proceeded to the account of the seduction of a supposed virgin girl called Harriet. The description of the body parts was so extremely explicit, the sex acts were so minutely recounted that I had to close the book a couple of times before finishing that chapter.

I am somewhat ashamed to admit that, even happily married as I was, the experiences described in those pages were affecting me to a considerable extent. The things I remembered doing with gay women were coming fresh to my mind and therefore, it was becoming very difficult to keep my arousal at guard. However, I was so curious that abandoning the book was thoroughly out of the question. So, I opened it once more, only to find that the second chapter had been bookmarked. It began as follows:

 

 

> Then took place the crowning act of my eroticism, the most daring fact of my secret life. An abnormal lust of which I have been ashamed and sorry, and the narrative of which I have nearly destroyed, tho according to my philosophy, there was and is no harm in my acts, for in lust all things are natural and proper to those who like them. There can be no more harm in a man feeling another's prick, nor in a woman feeling another's cunt, than there is in their shaking hands. — At one time or other, all have had these sexual handlings of others, yet a dislike to myself about this sexual whim still lingers. Such is the result of early teaching and prejudices.

 

I confess that my surprise at that paragraph did not detain me in the least. I went on reading how our protagonist invited a young man to the bawdy house and, after some nervous chatting and fidgeting, asked him to unbutton his trousers and to let him see his member.

 

 

> “I want to frig you," said I. "Yes sir.” …  I had scarcely frigged a minute before I wanted to feel his balls. … I frigged away, he felt its effects and sighed — I frigged on and felt the big, firm, wrinkled ball bag. A voluptuous shiver ran thro him soon. … I got on the bed and rubbed my prick against his buttocks. I shouted out — "Fuck her, — spend in her — spend in my spunk." … I laid him on the bed and putting his prick in my mouth began to suck it, first with the skin on, and then gently with the skin off. The smoothness delighted me.

 

At that point, I felt the imperious need to stop reading and calm myself down, because beads of sweat were already on my forehead and my breath was shamelessly hard and laboured.

The sort of perversions described in the text had aroused my flesh and my imagination in such a  degree that I had not known since my pubescent years. The simple idea of a man enjoying the bodies of a woman and another man, _at the same time_ , incensed my blood and made me half blind with want.

I did not remember having that lecherous desire previously in my life. I had, as many lads had at boardings, touched other boys' genitalia once or twice (to my fortune and peace of mind, Percy Phelps had not been one of them), but in all honesty I can say that I had not felt the urge of handling a penis other than mine over all those years. This notwithstanding, my mind was now lasciviously full of images of forbidden delights and my hands itched to feel the genitals of an imaginary male.

I put my hand to my groin and pressed down. The slight pain made me gasp and my arousal receded a little. I opened the book once more and began to read the third chapter.

After three or four paragraphs of half-hearted repentance gave place to a renewed interest in the young man and his attributes, which was rapidly followed by a great deal of experimentation.

My face was in flames by the time I reached the words that brought me to my crisis:

 

 

> One day standing up I soaped both our prick tips and we frigged ourselves. We put the two tips so close that they rubbed together, and we spent against each other's glans.

I closed the book, untied my flies and took myself in hand. Only two strokes had me gasping and moaning in what, I was sure, was undoubtedly the first show of that kind in that bedroom.

In the following ten minutes, I fell into a frenzied state, trying to ventilate the room and to remove any remote clue that Holmes could use to deduce that I had read the book.

When my heart had slowed down to its normal pace, the room was considerably cooler, my thoughts were recovering their sanity and my body began to suffer the accumulated fatigue from my activities. Lying down on my friend’s bed, I fell asleep in a few seconds.

 

* * *

 

I can declare here in perfect truth that those improper images which had so heated my imagination that night remained only fantasies after that episode. I did not even dwell upon what unfathomable use Holmes could possibly give to that volume if not to serve as a companion to _The Dynamics of an Asteroid_ and all the other books which my friend collected but could not understand. They certainly did not come to my mind when I was bedding my dear wife, though these occasions began to occur less frequently as her illness became worse.

Only in my moments of solitude, or when the occasions arose, here and there, those lewd, unnatural images flowed into my brain, speeding my heart and stirring my flesh with the echoes of unheard whispers and groans. Sensations never felt or long forgotten saturated my senses, picturing in my mind the foreign softness of skin sliding over hard flesh, or the smell, or the taste.

It was a whim discarded as soon as these moments were over, and to tell the truth, it was not even my most recurrent or obscene fantasy. On occasions, the mind conjures the unhealthiest perversions while we are indulging in self-gratification, but I firmly believe that it does not make us worse. For years, I did not consciously use the memory of those printed words for onanistic inspiration, or much less I did endeavour to turn these fantasies into reality.

I could safely say that I simply forgot the book but retained some of its impressions, although this changed a few years later.

It was precisely in 1893 that I vividly remembered the night that I spent in Holmes’s bedroom as a result of my recollection of the adventure of “The Naval Treaty”, which I was to publish in the Strand Magazine that very year. Holmes had already left me desperately hurt and alone at the Reichenbach Falls, taken for dead, and my wife had passed away in the early spring of 1892. For endless months, I had nothing more to do than to mourn them and to write.

As I was revising my notes on the case, my thoughts drifted to that night and remembered why and how I had slept under my dear friend’s sheets. It had been a trivial event at the time, but now the memory filled me with sorrow for the loss of that close intimacy that I had treasured so much while my friend was alive.

Later that night, in the privacy of my bed, I tried quite unsuccessfully to bring back some memories of the content of those pages, therefore I simply let my imagination fly. Ludicrous and undignified scenarios appeared in my mind, but then again, I have never pretended to be other than a common man bound to the needs of my body. In the aftermath of those pitiful and lonely moments in the unhealthy bliss of self-pollution, it occurred to me that maybe, and despite all my reticence about the idea, my friend had possessed this or other similar books for this same purpose. He certainly could appreciate a good wine or those hideous drugs so, why not, indeed? How often I had found him in a weakened, exhausted state of languor, due to his pernicious use of chemical substances! Why not also this simple, human vice?

How many times had he looked at me from the settee, with his limbs limp and relaxed and a lazy smile upon his face! How agreeable it was for me to see him soft and mellow after one of our visits to the Turkish baths! And those quiet evenings in front of the fire, when I used to startle him from his reveries and he looked at me almost fondly!

For the first time in many months, a violent, overwhelming and sudden grief seized me. An invisible hand constricted my throat and my eyes filled with tears. I missed him desperately. There, in the terrible silence of my room, I wept as a child.

Not long after that night, and mostly out of curiosity, I started to frequent Holywell Street, where that kind of literature was distributed and sold. In the following months, I acquired some artfully illustrated books, like the wicked _The Mysteries of Verbena House_ with its graphic and vivid watercolours, or the recently published _Gynecocracy_ . I even added two or three French postcards of a definite artistic taste, some of the privately distributed drawings of Aubrey Beardsley, and a couple of issues of the magazine _The Pearl_.

The content of my modest collection was extremely explicit and shameless. The characters possessed a superhuman combination of energy and lecherousness, so they could be indulging for pages and pages in the most obscene acts, either in pairs or in groups. Although I hardly could have considered myself an innocent, I confess I found myself blushing at some passages. There were no limits or taboos of any kind, social, physical or moral: there were orgies, whippings, incestuous affairs, women with other women and men with other men. The characters underwent a great deal of sexual experimentation, which they enjoyed greedily and almost always unrepentantly. A false realm of freedom without boundaries, laws or punishments, which served to satisfy a primal need to break the rules, at least in this small, private and fictitious domain. I considered it very refreshing.

In the course of the months that followed, I managed to find some volumes of _My Secret Life_ . It had been my introduction to erotica and somehow I associated it to a happier past. Even if it is difficult to speak in this manner about such an obscene publication, _My Secret Life_ had for me a deeply emotional meaning. Holmes had possessed a copy, for whatever the reason, and it was important for me to make that book part of my collection.

  
Thus preoccupied with my new hobby, those lonely months went quietly by until my life took again an unexpected turn when Sherlock Holmes returned to London.

 

* * *

 

Works cited

Etonensis. _The Mysteries of Verbena House, Or, Miss Bellasis Birched for Thieving_. N.p.: n.p., 1882. Print.

Pearl. _The Pearl: A Monthly Journal of Facetiae and Voluptuous Reading_. Oxford: Printed at the University Press, 1879. Print.

Robinson, Julian. _Gynecocracy.: A Narrative of the Adventures and Psychological Experiences of Julian Robinson, Afterwards Viscount Ladywood, under Petticoat-rule, Written by Himself_. Paris  & Rotterdam: n.p., 1893. Print.

Walter. _My Secret Life_. Amsterdam: n.p., 1880. _Horntip_. Web. 17 June 2016.  <<http://www.horntip.com/html/books_%26_MSS/1880s/1888_my_secret_life/index.htm>>.


	2. Chapter 2

I think I will never be able to express how my life changed after I discovered that my friend was still alive. In the course of a few months, I sold my Kensington practice, left my house and came back to my quarters at Baker Street. Although he remained as undemonstrative as usual, I thought that Holmes was somewhat pleased to have me back at his side. It was only some time later that I learnt about his meddling in the sale.

It was very easy to accommodate our life back to our old habits. In his periods of idleness, Holmes interested himself in whatever whim he fancied, like reordering his files or lounging amid his black-letter editions.

While I, in contrast to the previous years, was as happy as a man could be, and little more I asked from my new life with my friend than sharing his adventures and enjoying our friendship. I did not even consider marrying again: that would mean leaving Baker Street and that was, for the moment, out of the question. When the occasion arose that I had some needs to satisfy but not the desire to do it on my own, I simply went to the right places and was done with it. Whether Holmes knew about my wanderings, which I do not doubt, he never mentioned it.

One or two times I fantasized with the idea of inviting him along. In a deep part of my conscience, I longed to recreate some of the scenarios that I had read, and adding my friend to the equation increased in an unclear fashion the thrill of the experience. I never asked. For one thing, we had not the kind of friendship which allows two men to visit brothels together, and for the other, he always looked so aloof from these matters that the easiest conclusion was that he simply was not interested in this subject at all. The only thing from my friend remotely related to this issue was the pornographic book I had found in his night table, and the idea that he could have acquired it for his personal use seemed to be increasingly preposterous.

For the number of notes dated on the year after Holmes’s return, I can see that we kept ourselves very busy. Nevertheless, despite I was always at his disposal, sometimes and due to the nature of the business, I had to remain behind. This was the case one evening when, after having been alone all day and seeing no sign of his return, I decided to turn in early.

Having finished my ablutions and changed into my nightshirt, I went to my bedroom and opened the suitcase where I had not exactly hidden my modest collection of erotica. For that night, I selected the tenth volume of _My Secret Life_. I had left it at the beginning of chapter VII, in which the narrator recounted his encounter with a sodomite and there was a promising “masculine sixty-nine”.

I have to say that after reading part of the eighth volume in Holmes’s bedroom, I had thought that the main character and narrator of this story alternated experiences with males as well as with females more frequently. To my surprise, the content of the volumes that I had the fortune to get, while explicit in the same fashion, did not include almost any encounter between the narrator and another male. It does not mean that I did not enjoy his more conventional adventures with gay women. Nevertheless, a genuine eagerness arrested me when I acquired the tenth volume and saw that it included more variety.

I was ready to go to bed with it when a strong noise coming from downstairs startled me. With the book forgotten in one hand and my dressing gown in the other, I went down the stairs and entered the sitting room. There was my friend, and by him, a heavy-looking bag with what looked like a collection of plumbing tools. He stared at me a bit open mouthed as if my haste in coming down had rendered him speechless, but he recovered in a second.

  
“What a trifling affair and the amount of work it took!” said he jovially, pouring himself a brandy from the decanter and sitting down in his armchair.

“I presume you solved it, whatever it was.”

“Oh, yes. And the final clue is inside this bag, believe it or not… Watson, I do realize you don’t know what I’m talking about, my dear chap,” one side of his lips twitched in a ghost of a smile, “I’m not reading your mind, old fellow, it’s written all over your face. Well, given that I got you out of bed, let’s make it worth it. Would you care to taste your powers of observations?” He inquired with an eager smile, pointing the bag with a long, bony finger.

And like that, I let my book down upon the table and  prepared myself to make my own deductions. Since the resolution of the case had put my friend in a very good humour, he patiently guided me through the right inferences as we examined together the content of the bag. The affair had been trivial indeed, more so once he explained it to me, as usual, and totally unrelated to the main purpose of this narrative. Suffice it to say that we spent the rest of the night engaged in conversation until we retired to our respective rooms for a well-deserved rest.

The following morning, when I went downstairs to have breakfast, it surprised me to hear a violent commotion coming from Holmes’s bedroom. I looked around to see whether our sitting room had suffered from an assault, but I found it exactly the same as the night before. Even the bag with the tools was where we had left it. As our landlady made an appearance at our door, I silently asked with a shrug if she knew what was going on. She left the tray with our breakfast upon the table and approached me conspiratorially.

“Mr. Holmes is a little upset this morning,” she said in a low voice.

“I’d say so. What has happened?”

“He woke up early, so I brought him some coffee and a piece of that cake he likes so much. He’s not eating enough, Doctor Watson. He was peacefully sitting on that chair when all of a sudden he left the cup, rose up, stopped there for just a second, and stormed out of the sitting room.”

“Good Lord! Just like that? Did you say anything at all?”

“I just said ‘Good morning, Mr. Holmes, here’s your coffee.’”

“That’s harmless enough. And what on earth is he doing?”

“Rearranging his bedroom, for the sound of it. You should have your breakfast before it gets cold.” And with that, she left the room.

Although I was accustomed to my friend’s strange whims, this sudden outburst apropos of nothing filled me with confusion. After a particularly strong thump which almost made me choke on my toast, I resolved to go to his room and I knocked upon his door.

“Is everything all right, Holmes?” He answered by opening the door in a rush. He stood in front of me, searching my face with an intent gaze. His expression was a little wild, as if his business in the room were a matter of life or death. His hair was in disarray and he was still wearing his nightshirt under his dressing gown. He did not utter a word, just stood there looking at me, wearing a half-deranged expression upon his face for a long minute. Then he frowned, grimaced, and without a word he closed the door upon my face.

If I had been confused before, now I was utterly bewildered. What on earth was he doing and why had he looked at me like that?

Completely baffled, I went back to the sitting room and remained standing there without knowing what to do, when something caught my attention: laying on my desk was my volume number ten of _My Secret Life_.

A wave of suspicion swept over me. Had he seen the book? It had been careless of me to forget it like that in plain sight in the sitting room, but did that have anything to do with his change of mood? Could this be priggishness, after all those years of living together? It certainly was not the kind of material I would have left consciously at the sight of our landlady, nor a topic of conversation I would have chosen to have with Holmes, but surely an accidental finding of such a book could easily be politely ignored without a second thought. Surely it was not something so apocalyptic. And he had a volume of the same novel, for God’s sake!

This last thought worried me even more. Had he thought it was his own book, perhaps? Did he believe me capable of searching his room and borrowing his possessions without his knowledge or permission? The mere possibility vexed me.

Perplexed and uncertain as to the origin of the situation and seeing no way to address the matter without making everything worse, I resolved to leave the flat and to come back later, when things were calmer. I decided that I would leave the volume where it was so that Holmes could check at his own discretion that this was not one of his books. To let him know that I was leaving it there on purpose, I placed my used teacup just beside it.

In less than ten minutes I was out on the street, not without asking Mrs. Hudson first not to come up for the dishes yet. Our landlady was very discreet and not at all prone to pry into our things, but in this particular case, I could not be too careful.

I went directly to my club to pass the time with my colleagues and to read the papers, but I ended up having lunch and tea there as well. It was late in the evening when I saw no excuse to remain in my club and finally decided to head back home. I confess I was feeling a little anxious about what state of affairs I would find when I got to our lodgings, but trying to avoid the unavoidable was simply downright stupid.

When I, at last, entered our sitting room, Holmes was bending over his table and working among his chemicals.

I muttered my greetings and he did the same, so I thought that the worse had passed and that the reasonable thing to do was to spend the rest of the evening as quietly as possible.

I threw a sidelong glance towards my desk to see whether my book was still there. It was, but not exactly in the same position as I had left it in the morning. Therefore, I deduced that my friend had handled it at some point. I looked at him askance and caught him observing me. With a turn of his head so hasty that I thought he might have strained a muscle, he went back to his chemicals without uttering a sound.

I found myself at a loss for words but equally tried to think of something to relax the atmosphere. Although we had not quarrelled, I perceived that the air of the room was thick with tension. I cleared my throat in defeat, ready to retreat to my room and close an awful day, but apparently the sound surprised my friend and he dropped his burette upon the table.

“Damn!”

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s nothing,” he said, adding a dismissive gesture with his hand. He made use of the interruption to turn around swiftly in my direction with his arms crossed upon his chest and to move his eyes over my body.

“Thompson’s wife is better, I observe.”

“Yes, she has recovered her strength in the last weeks,” I paused, “but how…? No, wait,” I directed my sight to myself and examined my hands, my sleeves, my trousers and my shoes. “The ash!” I proclaimed triumphantly.

“Bravo, Watson!” His grey eyes glittered warmly with amusement. “You’re improving. In no time, I shall not be able to surprise you.”

“That will never happen,” I assured him. My answer seemed to please him, for a flush tinted his cheeks and he averted his eyes.

“We’ll see,” said he, in a muted voice. And with those words he terminated our brief conversation and returned his attention to his experiment.

With a great sense of relief, I sat on my chair and started to arrange some of the affairs I had planned to do in the morning. The rest of the evening felt like a balm on my mind. Now and again I turned round to look at my friend and my breast swelled with emotion at the simple fact that he was there. One or two times he halted as if sensing my eyes on him. That was not, obviously, among his exceptional powers of perception, but at that moment, I relished the idea of having that supernatural connection between us.

When the weight of the day started to wear me out, I stood up, retrieved my book from the corner of the table and went to the door. I bade Holmes good-night and he responded softly, meeting my eyes on the surface of a brushed metal mortar.

 

* * *

 

In the following days, the situation returned to almost normal. As Holmes was not summoned on a new case, he contented himself with his experiments and his excursions to the Bart’s laboratory. For my part, I remained mostly at home, except for a few visits to my club and the odd errand I was entrusted to do.

Between us, everything was mostly fine. We spent time together at home or went out for walks. In those moments, Holmes was his usual self, his charming self, not his misanthropic one, so it was actually delightful to see him so dashing and witty and being so attentive to me. He knew very well how to make someone love to be the centre of his attention.

A few times I caught him looking at me musingly, but I pretended not to notice or to care. Only once I caught his eyes with mine and I did not let go. I suppose that a question mark was written upon my face. He blinked a few times, wearing an unusual expression until he shifted his eyes off me and ran his fingers through his hair to lift a lock from his forehead.

However, most of the time, I endeavoured not to ponder too much in the strange behaviour my friend had exhibited, although I could not help feeling still slightly puzzled.

One late evening, about a week after that event, I returned to our lodgings to find that Holmes had already retired to his bedroom. It seemed a little odd, as after checking my watch I observed that it was not later than a quarter to nine o’clock. Resolving to have a quiet night in front of the fire, I went to my desk to get one of my adventure novels when I discovered an unfamiliar book resting on the corner. I picked it up and saw that it was not mine. Indeed, it was a beautiful edition of the _Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure_ , a novel about which I had often read but that I had not been able to find.

There was only one person in the world who could have left that book upon my desk. That much even I could deduce. As to why, it was then, for me, a little trickier.

I wondered for a few minutes and then, without further ado, I sat in my armchair in front of the fire with the book on my hands and I started to read.

The whole book was about the life of our heroine, Fanny, who wrote in first person her memoirs in the form of two long letters to a mysterious “Madame”, to whom she related how she was first introduced to sex and how she was forced to earn her living in an upper-class brothel.

The text, in my humble opinion, possessed a certain literary merit. The language was elaborated, while the style and the figures of speech were considerably better than what I was accustomed in this genre.

All this notwithstanding, after a couple of hours of continuous reading, I started to feel the effects of the narrative. Albeit Cleland used a considerable less directness in his descriptions than our contemporary authors, the very nature of the acts being recounted was like a fire to my blood and it made me become slightly fevered, so I got up to pour myself a glass of water, which I found nicely cool.

I knew it had come the time to retreat to my room. But I also wished to take the book with me, since there was, at least, that supposedly outrageous depiction of male sodomy that I wanted to read, mainly to see whether it was indeed that outrageous, beside the natural interest and curiosity that I had for the rest of the adventures of our heroine.

What I did not know was if Holmes had simply left the book there as a manifestation of an unfathomable aim, or if it was implied that I had the right to borrow it. Making up my mind, I finally decided to go up to my bedroom and fetch my recent acquisition of an original edition in French of the Marquis de Sade’s _Justine._ It had seemed a waste not to buy it at the time, although I cannot read a whole sentence in French without giving myself a headache. As I knew Holmes to be a proficient reader in that language, I resolved to leave the book in Cleland’s stead as a clear and intentional exchange. I knew it included a scene between two men, but given the content of the book I had found in his room, I supposed that this would not be too much an inconvenience for him.

With a mischievous anticipation of the solitary entertainment which such a book can afford, I finally went up to my room and locked the door behind me.

  
I honestly cannot remember thinking of Holmes in the following hour.

 

* * *

 

Works cited:

Cleland, John.  _ Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure: Written by Herself. _ London: n.p., 1831. Print. 

 


	3. Chapter 3

This is how we started our unconventional book exchange, of which we did not speak a word.

Frequently at night or when the other one was not around, we left them upon my desk and picked them up from there. We read in our bedrooms, or if we did it in the sitting room, we waited until it was dark and empty. We never commented on them or allude to them in any way. I am sure that all this behaviour had its foundations in a wish for a mutual respect of privacy more than in a real lack of trust. After all, the fact that someone knew that Sherlock Holmes possessed for his personal entertainment a decent collection of indecent books was nothing short of remarkable.

Always curious about human nature, I saw that it was an excellent opportunity to gain a valuable insight into my friend's reading preferences. He lent me some little gems, like the naughty _Laura Middleton; her lover and her brother._ We exchanged some volumes of _My secret life_ , which I suspected was one of his favourites. I learnt that he did not enjoy a certain type of flagellation erotica because I lent him _The Mysteries of Verbena House_ and the next day I found it with its front cover face down. He also did let me know that he had not especially liked my issues of _The Pearl_ since they received a similar treatment. But when in their stead I left the _Amatory Experiences of a Surgeon_ , I suspected that I had got it right, judging by the time he took to return it.

It was by then that I started noticing the pattern.  

The _Amatory Experiences of a Surgeon_ begins with the recountal in first person of the early experiences of a young man in a boarding school. From the first fumblings between two boys, the story soon proceeds to the description of a whole male orgy in which the narrator penetrates and is penetrated at the same time, an episode that ends with him giving and receiving fellatio.

Furthermore, at some point, the author celebrates the joys of performing anal penetration, and although he declares that “never spent with so much relish and impetuosity as in the beautiful bottom of a fair woman”, I could not help thinking that in this particular exercise it does not matter for the doer if the involved bottom belongs to a man or to a woman, especially if the doer in question likes both.

When that book was the first in a row that Holmes did not return right the next night, I began to observe that the presence of sexual action between men was a constant in all the books he had lent me as well as in those which he had borrowed from me and apparently were of his liking.

In my heart, I did not know what to think about this. If I did not want to be a hypocrite, at least to myself, I had to admit that I enjoyed reading those scenes.

Maybe Holmes enjoyed them as well, just as I did. Or maybe he enjoyed them _particularly_.

The possibilities implied in that assumption alarmed me and made me uneasy at the same time and to the utmost degree.

For what I knew, Holmes had not shown anything akin to interest or much less, love, for any woman since I met him. If I ever made a comment about the appearance of one of his female clients, he always dismissed it with a gesture or with a roll of his eyes.

On the other hand, I could not say that I had observed upon my friend any of the mannerisms attributed to those effeminate men who preferred their own sex, if one excluded his Bohemian soul and a certain penchant for expressive gestures. And neither had I observed that he was interested in the physical appearance of his male clients, other than to make deductions about them.

I thought that, maybe, I was just overreacting and inferring things from no evidence at all. It was entirely possible that he was interested in reading about those acts but had no interest at all in emulate them, just as I found appealing to read about flogging but I did not wish to experience it myself.

For reasons which I did not have the strength to face yet, that thought made me feel even more uneasy.

Those preoccupations kept me brooding one day, since the moment I woke up to an empty flat. After inquiring Mrs. Hudson about Holmes’s whereabouts and seeing that I had been left behind again, I deliberated all day about my next course of action. There was at least one thing that could be done, and that was to prove my first assumption.

For that enterprise, I chose a delightfully salacious novel by the title of _The Romance of Lust,_ in which the main character had torrid sexual encounters with both sexes, sometimes at the same time, sometimes just with females, and sometimes just with males.

I was sitting at my desk when I heard the front door being opened that night at half past thirty. With his characteristic tread, Holmes came upstairs directly to the sitting room and opened the door.

For his widened eyes I knew he did not expect to find me there.

He stood at the door regarding me as paralysed for a few seconds, and then he switched his gaze to the book that was resting on the usual place.

Overcoming his initial surprise, he began to pace about the sitting-room without any apparent reason, while I pretended to continue writing. The truth is that I could not focus on anything else but his presence.

After a few minutes, he approached my desk and halted behind me. I stopped writing but did not move. With the corner of my eye, I could see how he lifted his hand and in a very slow motion placed his long and bony fingers upon the book. For a few long seconds in which I did not dare to draw a breath, he remained still. Then, he caressed lazily the cover with his fingertips and finally picked it up.

I sensed him behind me, browsing the book. I could not see what he was doing, but I could hear the gentle whisper of the pages as he scanned the content. Then there was silence.

Hours before, in a fit of boldness, I had left a bookmark on the page in which one of the episodes of sodomy began: There were two men kissing and fondling each other over their clothes, until one of them unbuttons the other and stoops to take his prick in his mouth, while with one of his hands he seeks the other man’s anus to penetrate it with his finger.

I knew precisely what he was reading. I knew he could not have missed the bookmark.

Quietly, almost soundlessly, he retired to his bedroom.

When I heard his door closing, I exhaled deeply. To my chagrin, I realized I had become aroused.

Later, in my bedroom, I masturbated to the lewdest images I could conjure upon my mind: it was an orgy of unknown faces and bodies, but for the long and bony hands that brought me to completion.

 

* * *

The next morning I woke up in terrible spirits. I shouted at Mrs. Hudson because the water was not hot enough and then at the maid because she had slightly burned my toasts. Once or twice Holmes threw a glance at me over his paper, but he kept mostly to himself.

After the poor maid had cleared the table and Holmes and I were finally left alone in the sitting room, I realised that I would not be a decent company unless I composed myself, so I resolved to go for a walk despite the awful weather.

For hours, I wandered around the city until my leg started to hurt, but my spirits did not improve. If anything, they became worse. I kept torturing myself with one question: how could I find myself in such a predicament?

If I could have been able to erase the previous day, I would have done it without a second thought. What I had done to Holmes and to myself had been totally uncalled-for. It had put in jeopardy not only our friendship but also my self-knowledge and peace of mind. I was not an _uraniaster_ and I did not want to become one. I was a widower. And I could get women from three continents to vouch for me.

What did it have to do with me and why would I have to be interested in Holmes’s likes and dislikes in pornography? My body had reacted to the situation, but it had been merely a product of a morbid obsession. Nothing more. It did not mean anything. Furthermore, nobody knew. Holmes had been the only one in the room apart from me and he had not noticed anything because nothing had happened.

In the middle of the street, I realised that I was starting to feel cold, tired and nauseated. Limping a little, I headed back to Baker Street.

When I entered our sitting-room, Holmes approached me wearing an expression of concern upon his face.

“My dear fellow, get rid of those wet shoes and come to the fire to warm up a little.” He helped me out of my coat, and he moved his eyes all the while over my body in his own peculiar fashion. When he finished his silent deductions, he met my eyes with apprehension.

“Perhaps a rambling stroll by the docks was not the best idea, Watson. Please, draw up to the fire.” He took me by the arm but I shook him off without thinking. He gave a sudden start as a hurt look invaded suddenly his thin features. He blinked at me, hesitating, with his hand suspended in midair, and in that very moment I hated myself.

“Please, don’t fuss. I am not feeling very well,” I forced myself to say. I clapped him upon the shoulder apologetically and went to my armchair near the fire.

“I’ll fetch you a brandy,” he said. He seized the decanter and poured me a glass, which he held towards me in an outstretched hand. “I’ll go and ask Mrs. Hudson for some tea.”

“That would be lovely, thank you.”

He nodded once and got out of the room without meeting my eyes. I heard him go down the stairs and back up again a minute later. His long pause outside the door of the sitting room before coming in bespoke his uncertainty and his nervousness.

“Do you feel any better?” he inquired, approaching me and sitting in his big armchair in front of mine.

“A little.”

He looked at me under his bushy eyebrows and reached out for his pipe. I tried to make an effort.

“Are you working on anything right now?”

“Other than The Case of my Frozen Friend, you mean?” he asked half anxiously and half mischievously. At my pained look, he gave me an apologetic smile.

“I’m sorry, Watson. Usually, I’m the one with the bad moods and today I’m wading out of my depths.”

“Please, do not worry yourself on my account,” I said, sincerely, leaning back and closing my eyes.

“I… I got two tickets for the St. James’s Hall. That’s why I came home so late last night.”

The unexpected reference to the previous night made me open my eyes and I looked at him reluctantly.

“I thought we could… but if you are feeling unwell…,” he fidgeted with his pipe. “Maybe you should stay and rest your leg.” He finished lamely.

“Perhaps I could try to have a nap. At what time does it begin?” I asked him, in an attempt to regain normalcy.

“At five.” He answered with an eager expression upon his keen face.

“Just, let me rest for a while then.”

“Excellent! Mrs. Hudson! Always on time. Leave it here, please, I can manage.” Holmes hurried to the tray and poured me a cup of tea. “Here you are,” he said, and handed me the cup.

I drank my tea and tried not to think. As the flames and the heat from the fire were affecting me, I started to feel drowsy and at some point I got asleep.

In dream-land, I felt a warm, light press upon my chest and then a butterfly softly brushing my cheek. Not totally awake, I opened my eyes and saw the gaunt arms of my friend, who was covering me gently with a blanket.

“Sleep,” he whispered quietly, and I was again wrapped away in the embrace of Morpheus.

 

* * *

 

Works cited:

Campbell, James. _The Amatory Experiences of a Surgeon._ Moscow: Printed for the Nihilists, 1881. Print.

Middleton, Laura. _Laura Middleton. Her Brother and Her Lover_. Brussels, 1890. Print.

Romance. _The Romance of Lust: Or, Early Experiences_. [London]: [William Lazenby], 1876. Print.

 


	4. Chapter 4

It was only by a sheer force of will that I attempted to escape from the influence of  these blue devils, but fortunately, in my aid came a new client and a new case, which a few years later met the name of “The Norwood Builder” as one of the stories in _The Strand_. During the days we were in the middle of the adventure, I had little time to think about my troubles, as Holmes became totally absorbed by the investigation, and someone had to keep an eye on him to see that he had, at least, the minimum of nourishment and rest.

It was only when the case was happily closed that we recovered some of the quiet and peace which were so abhorrent to Holmes, and again we had some leisure to spend as we chose.

As my mood had brightened during the case, I had no greater interest than in convincing myself that the source of my worries had been a trivial thing and that I had finally overcome them. Nevertheless, I avoided my erotic books as the plague, lest I might be tempted anew into dangerous fantasies.

My friend’s uneven temper was these days in the poetic and contemplative phase that occasionally came upon him now and then, and for it, I was silently grateful, as the threat of his hideous vice had me on tenterhooks whenever he was idle.

To my good fortune, this time, he contented himself with his violin and his music sheets, composing or improvising. From time to time he even played some of my favourite pieces with knitted brows and an earnest expression, and in those moments, it seemed that there was nothing else he would rather do than play for me, although naturally, I knew better.

On one of those evenings after his last case, I was sitting in front of the fire, immersed in my thoughts, while Holmes was composing behind me. Lulled by the sounds of his violin, I dozed off. It was no more than a few minutes after when I woke up to find my friend sitting at the other side of the fire, with his head propped up on his fist and a dreamy look upon his face, observing me.

“Twelve,” said he.

“Twelve what?”

“Twelve inhalations per minute,” he explained.

“Have you been counting my breaths while I was asleep?” I asked incredulously.

He straightened his back, shrugged, and averted his eyes with a little smile upon his lips.

“Some faqirs say that the number of breaths a man will draw is already numbered at his birth. The more slowly people breathe the longer will they live,” he remarked casually.  “Your company is always stimulating and thought provoking, my dear fellow, even asleep.”

“Do you think my breath rate is average?” I wanted to know, sincerely curious.

Holmes looked at me as in astonishment, then he gave an impatient snort in reply, rose to his feet, and approached the fireplace. He shot a glance in my direction.

“You can be a little frustrating at times, Watson,” he said in a reproachful tone. I suppose my face expressed my lack of understanding, for he added an irritated “Yes. It is average.” And then he went back to his seat behind me and picked up his music sheets.

He had this singular ability for paying attention to minutiae and an annoying tendency to forget that the rest of us might not see their true significance.

As it was, I had not in my plan for the evening to get upset, so I ignored my friend’s petulance and looked round to see if there was something at hand to entertain myself.

“There is a volume of Catullus upon my table,” said he. I turned in my seat to look at him and caught him smiling with a self-satisfied air.

“Really, Holmes. You don’t fail to amaze me every single time,” I said and shook my head, staring at him with awe. He waved his hand with a dismissive gesture as a quick blush passed over his pale face.

“That’s just one of your many charms,” he added in an affected manner.

I rose up to fetch the book. It was a first edition of _The Carmina of Gaius Valerius Catullus_ , translated into English by Capt. Sir Richard F. Burton and Leonard C. Smithers.

“Would you care to read aloud?” he asked.

I returned to my armchair, while my friend took his music sheets and sat again at the other side of the fireplace, to be able to hear better.

After a few poems, I became aware that some of them were of an obscene nature, but the beauty and the cadence of the language, the colourful variety of themes, and the rhythm of verses were so captivating that I kept reading.

Between poem and poem, I would make a pause of some length, mainly to rest my voice. On one of them, Holmes rose up and poured us out some brandy, then he threw himself into his armchair and lighted a cigar.

Even in a translation, I could relish Catullus’s style and manner, the naughtiness, the sly innuendoes and bitterness of his invectives, or the sweet and honeyed words of his love poems.

Nevertheless, when I reached the infamous _carmen xvi_ I stuttered at the first words. Censured as they were, my eyes looked for the prose portion and then for the original in Latin. At my sudden hesitation, Holmes spoke in his usual commanding voice.

“Read it in Latin first.”

I cleared my throat and proceeded to read.

 

 

> _Pedicabo ego vos et inrumabo,_
> 
> _Aureli pathice et cinaede Furi,_
> 
> _Qui me ex versiculis meis putastis,_
> 
> _Quod sunt molliculi, parum pudicum._

 

I stopped there and attempted my own translation.

“That is, ‘I shall… sodomize you both and... fill your mouths’ ”

“ _Inrumabo_ means…”

“Yes, we both know what it means. May I go on?”

“Certainly.”

 

> _Pathic Aurélius! Fúrius, libertines!_

 

“In Latin _cinaede_ actually means…”

“Catamite,” I interrupted him with a strained voice. I raised my head and saw that he was looking at me with an enigmatic expression upon his thin face. I went on reading.

 

 

> _Who durst determine from my versicles_
> 
> _Which seem o'er softy, that I'm scant of shame._

  
  


At _carmen xxviii,_ I encountered another verse which made me falter again.

 

 

> _O Memmius! thou did'st long and late…_

 

I cleared my throat. “This one is censored too. That should be: ...lying supine, you… fucked my mouth slow and well with that entire beam...”

Seized with an unaccountable embarrassment and scandalized by my own impudence, I raised my eyes and looked at him furtively, but Holmes’s attention was not on me. He was staring at the fire, puffing his cigar and moistening his lips with his tongue with a faraway look in his eyes.

“That’s… that is metaphorical. Catullus was probably mistreated by this Memmius.”

“Oh, really?” he asked, turning his head to me with an absent air and raising languidly his drooping eyelids. He shrugged one shoulder, “he well might have been.”

His attitude was utterly relaxed, with his long, gaunt limbs lying loosely and he had a lethargic expression on his face. Two red patches had bloomed upon his cheeks, probably because of the brandy and the fire.

I felt myself flush crimson as I returned my gaze to the book, and went on with the next poem, although my mind was not on Catullus any longer. The heat of desire had begun to rush through my veins and it was already clouding my reason.

Even though I had seen him in a similar state of languor, never before I had found him desirable. But right then, I was anticipating the next pause so I could run my eyes over his limp body sprawled in the armchair, and I could not help imagining him with his clothes unfastened, stroking himself up and down with the energetic motions of his bare sinewy arm.

It was only a fleeting image, but so powerful that I felt its effects upon my flesh. Overcome by panic, I closed the book, excused myself and hurried out of the room and up the stairs as quickly as I could.

I only heard a weak “Watson!” behind me before I closed the door of the sitting-room.

There was only one thing to be done and it had to be done immediately. In a wretched combination of self-disgust and randiness, I burst into the street to find a bawdy-house.

 

 

* * *

 

Works cited:

Catullus, Gaius Valerius., Richard Francis Burton, and Leonard C. Smithers. _The Carmina of Caius Valerius Catullus_. London: R.F. Burton and L.C. Smithers, 1894. _The University of Adelaide Library_. EBooks@Adelaide. Web. 16 June 2016.  <<https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/c/catullus/carmina/index.html>>.


	5. Chapter 5

It shames me to remember the ruthless lewdness which took possession of my senses that night, in a desperate attempt to erase any shadow of my inappropriate lust for my friend. I spent most of the night with two experienced women who indulged me in every whim that seized me, however extravagant or queer, for what they earned my utmost respect. 

Nevertheless, the most useful lesson I learnt that night was that I could not go so long without having sexual relief of some kind, unless I wanted to start fantasizing again with Holmes or, God forbid, even with Mrs. Hudson. I was utterly convinced that the source of my arousal had not been other than the prurience of the text, my late abstinence, and my overactive imagination.

As a result of my excesses, the following day I did not rise till midday. At first, it took some effort to come down the stairs: our last evening had ended somewhat abruptly and I was not sure what explanation Holmes could have given to my sudden departure.

When I entered the sitting-room, Holmes just glanced me over from head to foot and went back to his business, remaining completely deaf to my attempts at small chat for the rest of the afternoon. Accustomed as I was to his every mood and habit, this behaviour did not surprise me. But when by dinner time he was still keeping himself cold and distant, I began to think that this mood was not caused by his work and that there was something else upon his mind.

“Is anything the matter?” I inquired. He lifted his eyes and regarded me long and steady. Then he shook his head and went on with his dinner.

Such an enigmatic behaviour put me on guard. 

“Holmes,” I started, “if this has something to do with my discourteous departure, I apologise.” Although I was pretty sure that he had deduced where I had spent the night, I hesitated before adding, “Some things must be forgiven or, at least, understood, especially among gentlemen.” 

He stopped eating and put one elbow on the table, looking at me as if he had something to tell me. I waited expectantly, but he only frowned. Finally, he got up and went to the fireplace, where he recharged his old clay pipe and lit it.

“I see that I have been sorely mistaken about a few things. I am very sorry if that has caused you any trouble,” he declared, tersely.

“I fail to understand what you mean.”

“Yes, well, that’s a fairly common occurrence.”

“Holmes…” 

“Although to be fair, this time it’s entirely my fault,” he said as if talking to himself, with a self-derisive smile curling his lip. My chest tightened with the harassing anxiety of not knowing what his burden was. The thought that he could have discovered my brief moment of weakness for him made my heart sicken with horror. This could be the end of our friendship, and all because of my loose and careless imagination. Although there was no subtle way of ascertaining whether he had read upon my face my short-lived and treacherous lust for him, all the evidence pointed that way. 

“Holmes, pray tell me this is not about…”

“I think we can better do without this conversation,” his voice was colder than the blade of a scalpel in a dissection room, and my worst fears were as good as confirmed.

“I never intended it to happen.”

“How an original excuse! I assure you I never heard it before.”

“I don’t know what came over me!” I cried. I felt so completely mortified, that I was ready to do whatever was required  avoid the shame I saw hanging over me . “Please, could we not simply pretend that yesterday never happened?”

He regarded me with a look of confusion on his grey eyes. Then he shook his head in bewilderment. “Could we?”

“Please, Holmes, for the sake of our friendship,” I begged him, my voice heated with emotion. “Let’s not throw everything away.”

Not quite meeting my eyes, Holmes remained still for a long instant, and then he nodded as a queer flush of colour sprang to his pale cheeks. It gave him an air of youthfulness and innocence that I had never witnessed on him. My heart leaped in my breast.

He recovered slightly, but still blushing, he shrugged and broke into a short, nervous chuckle.

“You are exaggerating. I never intended… I know it’s not really my business. I have no say in this matter. Of course, you are free to…”

“No, pray listen to me, of course you have every right. I think you are acting sensibly, all things considered, and for that, I’m hugely indebted to you. I should have never… But please, take into account the circumstances.”

“Those ‘circumstances’ affected me too, and I did nothing of the sort,” Holmes retorted, and his high and strident voice raised with a throb of irritation.

“I know. You’d never… That would be impossible,” I said, contritely.

“You seem disappointed,” said he, looking uncomfortable.

“No, I’m not disappointed. I’m relieved.” Indeed, in that very moment, I thought that there was no better way to end this madness at once and forever than to acknowledge the absurdity of the idea. Holmes was not and never would be interested in anyone, man or woman. He probably used pornography to broaden his knowledge of human behaviour in a context where he was not willing to observe or to experiment for himself. He most likely read it as if it were a monograph on British poisonous plants, but surely with less interest. I had been obsessed (that was the proper word for it) because I believed that I had finally found a proof of his humanity, a weakness other than his drugs, a physical need which showed that he was a man of flesh and blood. I had imagined that he had the impulse to share his body with another human being and that he satisfied it somehow with the help of fantasies and books. But none of these things were true. 

In my pathetic naiveté, I had thought that we had in common certain predilections and that Holmes’s tastes were even more adventurous than mine. As a result, and by the means of a hyperactive empathy, I had got to experience a misplaced desire for the wrong kind of intimacy once or twice. And now, being confronted with the idea, with the mere possibility of Holmes fantasizing about me… No, of course I was not disappointed. I was grateful, for it was all ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous. And the sooner I realized this, the better for everyone. 

“I truly believe you are incapable of anything like that,” I assured him and myself.

“Some people would consider that unusual, you know,” he commented awkwardly, looking at me askance.

“Unusual you say… do you really mean  _ decent _ ?” I asked with a bitter smile.

“I believe I couldn’t… at least not with… I have never…” He shook his head and bit his lip, visibly annoyed.

My heart was bursting in my breast. I felt utterly humiliated.

“Holmes, I... I don’t know what came over me. I know it must be difficult for you to understand such a base impulse, but if only you could believe me! I’m not like that. I am not like that. I only want to apologise and then forget everything about yesterday night. I am deeply ashamed.”

“You jolly well should be,” said Holmes, sternly, although the two red patches upon his cheeks lessened the effect. 

In that instant, Mrs. Hudson came in to clear the table, and all the while my friend stood by the fireplace stealing glances at me, so I surmised he was still apprehensive about the whole matter.

When we were alone once more, Holmes went to his room and came back with a couple of books on his hands. He sat in his armchair, opened the yellow-backed one and began to read. 

Although I desired nothing more than escape from his virtuous presence and retire to my room for the rest of my life, I knew that I had to face and conquer this awkwardness sooner or later. I resolved to put in order my notes on our last case, so I sat at my desk and endeavoured to concentrate on the task.

Thus occupied, we spent the rest of the evening in a companionable silence until the clock struck eleven o’clock. Then Holmes closed his book and I felt him looking at me with a pensive gaze. 

“You must be patient with me, Watson,” he said, shaking his head. “I fancy we both have to be.” With that mysterious announcement, he got up, approached my desk and placed his hand on my shoulder. I thought that, by that small gesture, he intended to tell me that everything would be settled between us. But then, he did something that left me dumbfounded: he deposited his books upon the corner of my desk with deliberation. 

When I saw those books resting there on that precise corner of my desk, I felt my blood run cold. We had not exchanged any books for weeks. I had been determined to give up that travesty of a book club which was a constant threat to our friendship. And above all, after the events of the night before and after our conversation of that night, what was the point of continuing with that dangerous intimacy?

With a trembling hand, I picked up the books. One was my copy of  _ The Romance of Lust _ , and the other one was entitled  _ Teleny _ .

* * *

Works cited:

Teleny.  _ Teleny, or the Reverse of the Medal. a Physiological Romance of To-Day. [sometimes Attributed to Oscar Wilde.] _ .  N.p.: n.p.,  1893\. Print.


	6. Chapter 6

I went up to my room with my mind in a turmoil. It had only been necessary a quick scan of the book to learn that it was a pornographic novel about a torrid affair between two men. Its pages were full of the raciest descriptions of male genitalia and extraordinary scenes of debauchery and masturbation. 

I sat down on my bed and buried my head in my hands. I could not understand him. How could he rebuke so harshly my brief but unfortunate lapse one minute and the next give me a pornographic novel on sodomy? Was he playing with me? And if it was so, what kind of game was that?

I surveyed the book as if it were a bottle of poison. Eventually, curiosity won and I drank the whole of it.

The next morning I came down to find that Holmes was already up and about. He greeted me with a quick smile from his chair where he was partaking of his breakfast with evident gusto. I had never expected that it would give me such pleasure simply to see someone eating with an appetite.

“What a splendid morning!” he exclaimed in a high-spirited voice. “Have you any engagement for today?”

“Nothing of importance.”

“Excellent. What do you say about accompanying me to explore a new little bookshop in Blandford Street”

“Bookshop?”

“Yes, I met the owner the other day and... Watson, you look ghastly! Are you feeling unwell?”

“No, just a little indisposed.”

“Come, come, Watson. You need to eat something. There is nothing that a good breakfast cannot cure. And let me tell you that Mrs. Hudson has surpassed herself this morning, once more.”

Truth to be told, the dishes smelled delicious, but I only could manage a cup of coffee and a bit of toast.

“Are you sure you’re all right, my old fellow?” He asked, surveying me with concerned eyes over his cup of coffee.

“Yes, it’s nothing, really. I didn’t sleep well last night, that’s all.”

“Oh!” He put down the cup and drummed his fingers upon the table, “that happens to me sometimes,” he shrugged. “Reading helps, sometimes,” he added in a low bashful voice, looking so self-conscious that I did not know what surprised me more, his last comment or his strange demeanour. In any case, I froze, with my cup of coffee suspended in front of me. He shot a quick glance in my direction, and sprang to his feet, not before I had seen that there was a touch of colour upon his sallow cheeks.

“Anyway! What do you say then? Are you well enough for a little exercise?”

“I’d say so. Perhaps the fresh air will do me some good.”

“That’s my Watson! Will you be ready in twenty minutes? Excellent!” And he dashed out to his bedroom.

Two hours later we were exiting the bookshop with our respective purchases. Holmes stopped outside for a moment to check his watch.

“We have just the time to go and see a small exhibition of old musical instruments before lunch. It’s not far from here and we can go through the park. What do you think? I’d say you look much better than you did this morning,” he said, directing his piercing grey eyes at my face.

Holmes in a talkative mood was truly entertaining, and the visit to the bookshop had unburdened my mind,  cheering me up a little. I was still confounded and still speculating on my friend’s baffling behaviour, but his constant attention and care made me think that, whatever was on his mind, it was not against me or against our association.

The park was quiet and almost desert, and soon we were walking arm in arm through a very pleasant and solitary path surrounded by chestnuts and oaks. The air smelled clean and the occasional ray of sun felt warm on my cheeks, 

“So, you have decided to write an account of our last case.”

“Yes.”

“I concede that it had some features of interest, although I seriously doubt that your readers can appreciate the cold and severe reasoning from cause to effect which conducted us to the answers of the problem.”

“I really don’t know why you bother yourself with my writings if you find them so lacking.”

“Oh, I don’t blame you. Your public reads these stories of yours right after ‘Pictures with Histories’. They expect sensationalism, not logic and science.” 

We had discussed this topic so many times that on this occasion I simply sighed.

“I liked ‘ The Red-Headed League ’, though for a different reason.”

“Pray tell.”

“I came upon an issue of  _ The Strand Magazine _ during my travel to the East. I managed to help a lady to find her lost pearls, a trivial matter, not worth mentioning really, and she gave it to me.”

“She gave you an issue of  _ The Strand _ as a reward?”

“I asked for it, Watson. Let me tell you that your teasing humour is constantly developing, my dear chap,” he said, pressing my arm a little tighter with his long, nervous fingers. “It must have been homesickness, I suppose, but the fact remains that I read it and I liked it.”

His casual talk about the very thing which had managed to help me through the worst years of my life made me feel a little resentful. Not so much for his offhand remark, as for his past indifference to my suffering. 

“You could have written to me if you wanted new material to read and criticize. I could have sent you not only the published stories but also my manuscripts.”

“That would have been unwise as well as dangerous. Besides, I always intended to come back.”

“Perhaps, but I did not know that,” I replied, a bit stiffly.

“Mycroft kept me well informed me about you and therefore, I knew you were doing fine.” He hesitated for a few seconds, “That is, until…”

“We both knew it was coming.” I interrupted him. “At least I could say farewell to her.” I felt again the tight pressure of his strong fingers around my arm.

“I assure you I didn’t wish to remind you of your loss,” said Holmes in a quiet tone. But it surprised me to discover that the beloved memory of my wife did not arouse other emotion than tenderness, respect and a deep affection for my sweet companion. The grief and misery had finally disappeared, as a peaceful, gentle soreness had taken their place. 

At the same time, however, I noticed the hand of my friend on my arm, as though reminding me that he was still there, still alive, still with me, and that reassurance filled my heart with a bursting feeling that I could not name, define or explain, and which entangled itself with my unhealed wounds and my resentment, leaving me oddly empty and miserable.

Holmes cleared his voice, encouraging me to say something. However, I remained silent and keeping a tight rein on my emotions. When it was evident to him that I had nothing to add, he tried to divert the conversation to the original subject.

“You... managed to catch the essential matter of the case spicing it with some spirit of adventure. I may have reread it a dozen times. There was little else to do those days, anyway.”

“At least it could entertain you a little before you wrapped a sandwich with it,” I said in a passively aggressive tone. Holmes stopped and let go of my arm. Looking up at the sky, he seemed to be thinking, uncertain.

“I see that I have offended you deeply. It was not my intention. We can go back to Baker Street now if you so desire.”

“I still would rather go to that exhibition,” I replied with determination. He threw me a curious glance and then lowered his eyes.

I merely offered him my arm and we resumed our stroll.

“You say there was little to do. How so?”

“The journeys were long and the company was not often of my liking. You know how I am.” 

“You did not make any friends, then.”

“Friends, no. A few acquaintances.”

A sudden image of Holmes alone and unknown among people of different cultures and different tastes assaulted my mind. 

“And didn’t you take advantage of your anonymity? It must have given you a great deal of freedom.”

“Well, yes, when the occasion arose. Nevertheless, I was not looking for the sort of experiences you have in your mind. You can easily get those substances here in London, Watson.”

“I wasn’t thinking about that,” I admitted, reluctantly.

“What then? Oh!” He was silent for a minute. “I told you yesterday that I have never… used that kind of services.” 

These words confounded me.

“Yesterday? When was that? We didn’t talk about…” But it was at that very instant that the realization came over me, and I felt so overwhelmed that I experienced some dizziness. “You said that you…, yes, yes, of course.” I looked around, searching urgently for a bench because my knees weakened suddenly under me. “Would you mind if we sit down for a minute?”

“Certainly not. What is the matter? You have turned very pale.” My friend scrutinised my face with piercing eyes, and I could tell the instant when his quick brain made the inference. “Watson, what did you think we were talking about yesterday?”

I simply stared at him, unable to put into words.... Holmes finally sat by my side and directed his eyes to the trees in front of him.

“You don’t want to tell me. Why?”

The prospect of having to endure such a humiliating situation for a second time filled me with horror.

“Holmes, I know I’m asking too much but, could we let the matter rest?”

“No. Why did you feel you had to apologise so ardently?”

I closed my eyes in despair.

“You said I was acting sensibly, all things considered, and that you believed that I am incapable of anything like that, that I could not understand such a base impulse…” He turned his face to look at me. His keen, gray eyes widened, but he suddenly broke contact with my mine as he leaned back on the bench as a bright flush came over his cheeks.

“You did not speak a word to me all day. I thought you had noticed.”

“No, I was distracted myself at the time. Obviously, I deduced you were… but not for...”

“You hardly miss anything, and seeing that you were cross with me, what else could I think?”

“So, you made such a fuss for…” He fidgeted in his seat. 

“Such a fuss you say!” I protested, but I felt the blood rise to my cheeks at the implication of his words. “You thought I was apologising for leaving so suddenly. You got angry.”

“It had more to do with the fact that you left and where you went afterwards than with the haste.” 

My heart started at those words and began to beat wildly. He would have wanted me to stay. For what, I did not know, but I looked askance at one of his long and graceful hands, resting on the bench near my knee, and wondered if they would be as wicked and clever as I had imagined them to be. 

I shuddered and tried to regain control over my excited imagination, as this was not the moment or the place to lose my composure. 

Probably consciously blind to my distress, Holmes drew out his watch and looked at it.

“Have you recovered yet?” he asked matter-of-factly. _ “ _ If we hurry we can get there in time. Later we can have lunch at the Strand restaurant.” He stood up swiftly. “Shall we?”

I glanced up at him but he was purposefully not looking in my direction, so I got up and we walked on again, more quickly this time. I did not offer him my arm and he did not attempt to take it. We marched in silence side by side, with our arms brushing softly against each other, so alike and yet so different to every other time we had walked together.

When we finally arrived at the exhibition, my blood was considerably cooler, and I strolled about the place staring at the instruments absent-mindedly, for my attention was stubbornly fixed upon the conversation I had had with Holmes at the park, as a result of which I was bound to reconsider all the events of the past days.

As I observed how my friend moved and stopped around with his characteristic grace, I decided to go through the facts one by one, and I was proud to reach some conclusions on my own.

Apparently, Holmes had at least some interest in sexual matters, but according to him, he had never put himself in professional hands. If he had had some previous experiences of any kind, I did not know, but I could surmise a long period of celibacy, presumably since the time I had met him. 

As for the nature of this interest, it was still unknown. I knew that he read pornography and that he possessed a good collection of erotica, but I was not certain whether he derived any pleasure from it or not. On the other hand, considering what had happened the night before last and how my visit to the brothel had affected him, it might not be too venturous to suppose that he had upon his mind some design concerning me, although it remained a mystery what that design was.

The next question I dwelled upon was, naturally, why me. I did not hold out any hope that he entertained any feelings of love or affection for me. I was his friend, his only friend by his own words, and he was somehow used to my presence in his life. I was one living thing among his personal belongings, and he cared about me in the same fashion. And if I took into account that he was reluctant to form new friendships, then I had to conclude that it was purely circumstantial the fact that he was considering  _ me _ as a sexual being, since he did not have anyone else at his disposal.  

It was possible that he only wanted us to continue the things that we had already done by then, that is to say, sharing books or even reading them together. After all, this also could be considered a big leap from that characteristic reserve of his, as he was a very private man. And perhaps it was because of his masterful personality that he expected of me to enter into an ‘exclusive contract’, a meagre agreement that, from his point of view, ought to satisfy by itself all my desires and needs. 

Nevertheless, a thrilling possibility occurred to me: that this very well could be another of his ever-changing fields of experimentation, to be abandoned and discarded as soon as he learnt all there was to be learnt. 

I had to confess that this last prospect was not without its charms. For some obscure reason I could not comprehend, I had developed a little penchant for men. It did not imply that I had become a sodomite, for I still preferred the company of women in my bed. But now and again, I would not have minded having at hand a body like mine, with the same needs and the same responses. Moreover, I had become slightly obsessed with my companion’s sex life, and since I had already experimented once or twice a sudden carnal desire for him, it would be a happy coincidence of circumstances for us both if Holmes wished to indulge in some amusing encounters of that kind.

I was musing on this subject behind an enormous African drum when I saw how a gentleman approached my friend and greeted him very cordially. He was a little older than me, taller and broader, with powerful hands and a pleasant, fair-whiskered face. I disliked him instantly. They exchanged a few words and they both laughed at something that my friend’s acquaintance said.

I turned my back to them and went straight to the wind instruments, which were exposed at the other side of the room. Surveying the collection of flutes and different kinds of hollow wooden tubes and pipes, I inwardly congratulated myself on the fact that my friend played the violin and not one of those phallic instruments. It was perfectly reasonable that playing the flute had been once prohibited to women, or so I had read. As I was having this thought, I caught my reflection on a showcase, and the sudden self-awareness made me secretly laugh at the pitiful state of my mental health.

Turning around to see whether Holmes was still accompanied by his gay and handsome acquaintance, my gaze wandered searchingly until I discovered him alone at one side of the room beside the brass instruments, observing me with a questioning smile on his lips.  Overwhelmed by a sudden emotion, I simply shrugged and retreated to the opposite corner, and began to study with an absorbed attention an enormous theorbo which did not interest me in the slightest. 

I was being perfectly conscious of my puerile behaviour, but at the same time I could not help being as lost as a virgin in a brothel. Despite all my self-reasonings, there I was, trying to soothe my heart simply because I had seen Holmes smiling at me. I did not know what I was feeling. I was confused and frustrated and more than a little scared. I had to assure myself that everything was normal, that I was still myself and Holmes was still Holmes and that I did not want that to change. And that mysterious gentleman was probably an old and grateful client and most certainly I had not felt jealousy for the first time in my life.

Soon I became tired of looking at the theorbo, and I found myself again searching the room for my friend. This time, I saw him in front of a showcase containing sheet music. His gaze was fixed on the sheets and he seemed to be deeply concentrated on them. I observed the familiar profile of Holmes, his short, black hair, his long, gaunt legs, and his thin but wiry arms. My eyes were wandering over his body when I caught him looking at my reflection over the surface of the showcase. 

I had almost decided to go to him when we were interrupted again by the fair-whiskered gentleman, who appeared from among the visitors and, placing a hand on Holmes’s shoulder, conducted him away from my sight.

I felt oddly abandoned again, so I considered leaving the exhibition and going back to our rooms. However, I remembered the book that Holmes had lent me the night before and promptly I decided to stay. I kept an irrational hostility to that man for no other reason than for being attractive, and suspecting that Holmes was somehow partial to the society of men, I saw danger in his mere presence near my friend. On the other hand, I knew that it was all madness and that I was falling prey to a temporal state of confusion and uncertainty. 

It was one thing to anticipate a taste of forbidden pleasure with an intimate friend and another to believe that this could progress to a relationship akin to marriage, where protestations of love and vows of fidelity were made. 

I reached these conclusions in front of something resembling a harp, and as I learnt some time later, it was indeed an Egyptian harp. However, in that moment, it was the same to me if I was regarding a harp or an organ, for all the attention I was paying to the exhibition. 

“Ah, there you are. I wasn’t aware we were playing hide and seek today, you know?”

“We can play another game if this one doesn’t suit you,” I said, shamelessly flirtatious, throwing caution to the winds.

His eyes widened in surprise at my retort, then he gave a short laugh and let his eyes roam over the room, sporting the shyest smile I had ever seen on his face. Not quite meeting my eyes, he lifted his shoulder in a tiny shrug, making a poor attempt at coquetry.

“Here?”

“If you have quite finished, we might go to Marcini’s for lunch.”

“Oh, that was the plan,” he said, once more in his usual composure.

“Let us go then. By the way, are you not going to say goodbye to your friend?” I inquired with pretended innocence.

“No, he has already left.” He shot me an inquisitive glance. “Oh, come now, Watson, ask away!”

“Very well, who is he?”

“He is Mr. Stanley Milton, I know him from my time at the theatre.”

“Is he an actor?”

“An actor? Good heavens, no. He conducted a small orchestra and he invited me, along with a fellow actor who also played the violin, to play with him a couple of times. I had never seen him since. Are you satisfied?”

“He seemed very glad to see you.” 

“How observant of you! Hadn’t you been hiding?” He asked, with amused curiosity.

“It would have been hard not to notice him. He is very handsome.”

“Do you think so?”

“Don’t you?”

“I did not observe,” he said, curtly, and we walked briskly out of the building and directed our steps to the restaurant. 

Holmes’s words made me experience a sense of relief quite out of proportion. As I marched at his side, I felt a new confidence for which I found a good and sound explanation: the seeming inattention of my friend to the impressive appearance of this Mr. Stanley Milton only confirmed my long-held suspicion that Holmes was somehow insensible to the physical charms of either sex. And, on the other hand, that stirred my hope that he were indeed conducting an experiment, circumstance that would provide the perfect arrangement to suit our purposes. 

So distracted was I with my cheerful thoughts, that I did not perceive that my friend had become coldly distant. 

“I should have had a proper breakfast. I’m completely ravenous,” said I, joyfully.

“Not for lack of encouragement on my part.”

“No, I agree on that.”

“It is a wonder how the mere sight of beauty has restored your appetite.”

“Yes! our stroll about the park and such marvellous instruments…”

“I meant that it is astonishing how you let yourself be bewitched by anything with two legs.”

“Two legs?” I really tried to remember what sort of instrument could have only two legs.

“Mr. Stanley Milton’s.”

I halted, utterly dumbfounded.

“It was only to be expected, now that you have so clearly broadened your horizons.” Hearing such hurtful words from the lips of my friend stunned me.

“Holmes, that is a blow below the belt,” I said, gritting my teeth.

“I’m merely stating the obvious, don’t get so warm.” He replied nonchalantly.

“You should not presume to know me better than I do myself.”

“I should not dare. It’s practically impossible to keep track on all of your whims. Believe me, I have tried it.”

“What whims! I only said he was handsome!” his half-mocking and half-cynical attitude enraged me so much that I decided to put an end to this story right at that moment. “Look here Holmes, it seems as if my slip from the other night has given you the wrong impression. That was an accident. And ‘pon my word, if you imply again that I…,” I could not finish that sentence, as we were standing in the middle of the street and that was suspicious enough. I looked around and lowered my tone. “You don’t have any right to speak to me like that.” 

His countenance changed in only a few seconds to an increasingly alarmed expression and then he stiffened and laughed a mirthless laugh. Without saying a word, he resumed walking with quick long steps and I followed behind.

“What? What do you find so amusing?”

“I? Unfortunately nothing. It was a sardonic laugh. At my expense.” 

“What does that mean?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Holmes!” I warned him. He cast a sideways glance at me while he slowed his pace. Frowning, he finally halted and sighed anxiously.

“Why the deuce not?” He muttered as if speaking to himself. “It means that I thought we were finally getting somewhere, but obviously, I was wrong. Once again. Admittedly I hardly have any experience regarding this kind of situations, but such clumsiness on my part… This whole thing is awfully ridiculous.”

My heart began to beat wildly in my chest.

“Getting where?” I demanded to know with a feigned severity to hide my sudden nervousness.

“Watson, are you confounding me on purpose?” he asked.

“No.” I really was not, but that unexpected fit of jealousy, which I had so wrongly misunderstood for derisive criticism, had taken me completely aback.

“Then why…?” His voice showed his frustration. “Don’t you see I’m wading out of my depths here?”

“You want us to go somewhere.” There it was again, that bursting feeling in my chest.

“Watson!” He cried, visibly exasperated. 

“And you really think I could want something with that fellow. Holmes, I don’t even know him.”

“That has not stopped you before, has it?” he said with asperity. I had to acknowledge at least some truth in that remark.

“So, you… want to… really want to...” I half asked. We looked into each other’s eyes steadily.

“Yes, of course I do. I have been wanting to for a while now. Would you be so kind as to find a place for me in your waiting list?” 

I exhaled slowly and tried to control my heart. My hands were damp and my head felt light and dazed as if I had been drinking. This was the answer to my question. This was the confirmation of the experiment hypothesis.

“Yes.” I could not rely on my voice to say anything else.

He blinked then swallowed and finally gave a resolute sigh.

“Shall we go then?”

We made our way to Marcini’s in silence, but my head was in such a confused state that I could not have reached the restaurant without Holmes’s lead.

Once there we took a table at one side and picked our choices. My friend evaded my eyes until the waiter had taken our order.

He was evidently nervous, drumming with his long, sensitive fingers upon the mantle, letting his eyes wander about the room, while I vainly attempted to find something to say.

“It’s quite crowded for this hour,” I said finally, quite lamely. Holmes made an impatient noise, and leaning back in his chair, he surveyed me quickly with his characteristic analytical eye.

“Today?” he inquired plainly, and I did not need to ask what he was referring to.

“If you want.”

“I was under the impression that you had some interest in this matter. Maybe I assumed too much.”

Although I was reasonably eager to carry on with his experiment, somehow the mechanical and business-like approach made me feel as if he was one of my patients waiting for a diagnosis. 

“Holmes,” I started hesitantly, “I’m not expecting romance…”

“Good.”

“... but we could try and make it a trifle less sordid, don’t you think?”

“Did you also make this requirement the other day at the brothel?”

That harshness hurt more than what I would have expected.

“Those women were professionals. You and I are friends.”

“Those?” Holmes raised his eyebrows, “How many? Two? Three? Four?”        

“Two.”

“Ah! It’s useful to know as a reference. I wouldn’t want to disappoint your expectations about my endurance.”

I did not respond, but I stared at him quietly.

“We are really doing this, Holmes.”

He fidgeted in his seat as a crimson flush dyed his cheeks and even his hawk-like nose. It struck me then how often I had seen him blush lately, and that thought left a pleasant effect upon my mind. 

There was a silence. A few minutes passed and the waiter came and went. 

“Have you ever tried the… shepherd’s pie?” Holmes asked to a baked potato. 

I surveyed the plate in front of me.

“Sometimes, I think. But never more than a few bites. Why?”

Holmes looked at me with an intent gaze.

Ah.

“I never tried one properly made. You know… boarding schools.” This was the first time I mentioned it to another soul.

Holmes nodded pensively and continued eating.

“And you?”

“I have never been very fond of pies. One doesn’t really know what there is inside. Too much trouble.”

“Trouble?”

He shrugged a shoulder.

“There are easier ways of feeding yourself.”

“But, you have, haven’t you?” I waited, “tried a pie? Any pie?”

Holmes did not answer and, as I had learnt to know early in our friendship, when he was intentionally ignoring me, it was better not to insist.

“Well, I’m very fond of pies,” I continued cheerfully. “Kidney pies are my favourite, but I would not mind a shepherd’s pie now and again, if I like them.”

“You are not sure?”

“As sure as you are.”

“Cunning, Watson, cunning.”

I simply smiled at him and took my attention back to my plate. As I reached out my fingers for the salt, I brushed his hand with my fingertips. He started but did not move it away, and only when I picked it up he withdrew his hand. 

“Shall I pass you the salt?” I asked after I had finished.

“If you please,” he answered, stretching his long fingers towards me. I offered him the salt and he took it, but our hands did not come into contact this time.

“I long to touch you,” he whispered almost inaudibly.

My heart gave a great bound and began to beat heavily. 

“You will,” I said in the same tone.

“I have been waiting for a long time.”

“You should have spoken sooner.”

“You hardly gave me the opportunity.”

“I had no idea.”

“I want to experiment this…” the rest of the sentence was spoken in so low a tone that I could not hear a word of it.

“What?” 

He looked at me very seriously and his expression turned suddenly cold.

“You wouldn’t want to know.” 

“Perhaps not.” Indeed, I preferred his passionate words, even if they were pretended, to the cold exposition of his true interest in the matter. I had to remind myself that this, for him,  was nothing more than an experiment. 

“I confess I have my doubts as to why this is something you wish to try.”

“Let me see..., I like danger and I am curious,” I thought for a few moments, “and I like helping you in every way,” I added.

“Quite so,” said he, very softly.

_ And I would do anything to occupy the first and only place in your tiny heart _ , I did not say because that sudden thought scared me.

“I should consider myself very fortunate to have such a loyal companion,” he remarked conclusively, with a polite smile upon his face.

We spent the rest of the meal mostly in silence, exchanging furtive glances over our glasses and making small comments about nothing in particular. 

Holmes was, in my biased opinion, unusually attractive under the lights of the restaurant. He had on his most flattering attire, which set off his keen, gray eyes and his black eyebrows. The combined effects of our morning walk, the wine, and perhaps, the prospect of the evening, had coloured his face with a healthy glow which made his cheeks look fuller and his reddened thin lips look softer. Every time I caught sight of the tip of his tongue, I had to take a mouthful of cold water to refresh my head but I could not, for the life of me, ignore or forget that in a few hours I would have his permission to touch him.

When the coffee came, my friend played nervously with the spoon, and his hand had a slight tremor which was quite evident every time he raised the cup to his lips.

“I’m nervous.” He said, looking uncomfortable.

“I know, I am nervous too. It’s normal at first. It will soon go off.”

“I hope so.” 

“If you are finished…”

He did not seem to have heard me. His gaze was fixed on his empty cup and the outline of his masseter muscle was plainly visible.  

“Holmes…”

He sprang to his feet as if he had been pricked by a pin.

“Come along, Watson.”

Once in the street he stopped and turned to me.

“Would you have any objection to walk a little more?”

“I thought you were impatient.”

“I’m more nervous than impatient.”

“All right,” I agreed unconvinced.


	7. Chapter 7

Our walk turned out to be three hours long, so when he finally proposed to get back to Baker Street, my feet hurt me so that I could hardly walk.

After we had entered the sitting-room, Holmes excused himself to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. I remained there, at a loss as to what to do in the meantime, and even fearing that Holmes might be having second thoughts about the whole thing. I smoked a cigarette to soothe my nerves, but it was not enough. I was about to light a second one when Holmes’s door opened and he came back into the room, along with a whiff of soap and of my friend’s cologne.

“Shall I light the fire?” he offered.

“I could do it.”

“No, no, no. Sit here and rest your leg. It has been a long day.”

I did as I was told, although my leg was, for once, behaving itself and not giving me any trouble.

Holmes crouched over the fireplace, and I noticed that his collar was slightly bent. I stretched one hand to straighten it, but when the back of my fingers touched the back his neck, he started and dropped the poker on the floor, making me flinch at the noise.

“Sorry,” said he without turning. 

“No, I am sorry. I startled you first.”

He remained still for a moment, then retrieved the poker with a deliberately slow gesture and proceeded to stoke the fire.

It occurred to me that all the negotiations that seemed so easy in pornography had nothing to do with the very same things in real life. 

There we were, both alone in the privacy of our sitting-room. Holmes, on his knees, poked the fire with his back turned to me, and I, with my legs stretched out and the outer side of my right calf in contact with his lower back. After my first attempt, I did not dare make a second one. 

Holmes turned his eyes to my feet, resting on a stool at his left side, and very slowly moved one of his long, bony hands to let his fingertips rest on my shin. With a steady gaze, he regarded my shoes as if he were deducing some evidence from them. 

“Does it hurt?” he inquired in a quiet voice.

“Not now.”

He passed his tongue over his lips and grasped my leg slightly through the fabric. 

“May I?” he asked, giving me a sidelong glance. I nodded in response and he mimicked my gesture absentmindedly. With his left hand, he slid up my trouser leg to expose my shin, which he contemplated as mesmerized. After a few moments of stillness, his right hand also came into contact with my leg, and he began to caress my skin, at first shyly but with increasing confidence, as if he were playing an antique and exquisite instrument.

Innocent as it was, the feeling of his touch on my skin excited me. The whole situation and its foreseeable development sent flames of desire through my veins.

Soon his palm was kneading my calf, massaging my muscles. He tried to reach further up with his fingers, but the hem of my trousers did not let him room enough. Feeling madly bold, I moved my partially exposed leg towards him and lifted my hips, which immediately attracted his attention to my groin.

He licked his lips again and let them half opened. I could see the rhythmical movement of his chest and, despite I did not count it, I could tell that his breathing speed was higher than twelve inhalations per minute.

He met my eyes for a second but lowered his gaze towards my groin. 

“May I?” he whispered.

“Yes.” 

He exhaled slowly through his mouth and let his hand wander up the inside of my leg. When he reached my groin, he slid his fingertips over my clothed testicles and my member. Then he looked at my face and shut his eyes, moaning.

“Oh Watson,” he whimpered, almost lovingly, and something in my breast exploded at the sound of my name being uttered in such a fashion. I watched him greedily and tried not to miss anything; for, to my sorrow, I did not know whether I could ever see us again in this predicament.

His eyebrows were tightly knitted, and when he finally opened his eyes, I almost could not discern the gray of his iris anymore, as his eyelids were heavy and his pupils were considerably dilated. A slight tremor ran through his body while his long and bony fingers trembled deliciously over my groin. He sighed shiveringly and the shadow of a smile crossed his reddened face for an instant. I had never thought he could look so wanton and therefore, I became restless.

“Let me,” I pleaded, as I rose to my feet. “Please, let me.”

“Yes, whatever you want.” 

“Get up.”

“Yes.” He was unusually malleable and pliant in my hands, standing in front of me, trembling and panting and letting me use my advantage to pet his chest over his clothes. His heart was beating wildly under my hand and his breath was hot upon my forehead. I slid one hand under his jacket to be able to feel him better as I drew my other hand to his face. It was terribly warm, and a tantalising blush was opening its way to his neck and below his collar. His thin lips were still half opened and his laboured breath was audible. 

Seizing my opportunity, I took the liberty of stroking his mouth roughly with my fingers until I left them ruby-red and swollen. The presence of such an inviting orifice aroused in me a strong desire for penetration, so I inserted a thumb between his teeth. Closing his eyes, he rolled his tongue around the intruder and started to suck like a newborn, moaning with abandon.

His face was redder than before and there was a visible pulse in his temporal arteries.

Meanwhile, my other hand was not idle, being occupied in disturbing his clothes and rubbing his torso over his waistcoat and his shirt. When I found the tiny protuberance of a tightly erected button of flesh, his whole body shuddered and he moaned louder, so I resolved to concentrate entirely on this part of his chest. He soon grew impatient and, pulling out my thumb from his mouth, reached to my groin with his hand and fondled it with enthusiasm.

“Get it out, let me see it, get it out,” Holmes demanded hoarsely. I pushed my hips against his hand for a few seconds and then I moved it away.

“You first,” said I, falling to my knees and beginning to unbutton his trousers. He tried to stop my hands but his attempt was feeble and futile.

“I must see you! Oh, please, Watson, let me see you!” I shivered at the sound of my name, but I did not yield.

“Be patient.”

I handled his penis through his drawers and the gesture made him push forward his hips rhythmically. There was a wet spot on the part of the fabric which covered the tip of his prick and he groaned loudly when I rubbed it softly over his glans. 

My mouth was watering at the sight, my prick twitching every time I heard his murmurs of pleasure, and I imagined how deliciously obscene it would be if I fellated him, there, on my knees, and frigged myself at the same time. Thus, I was prepared to undo my own flies when the most unexpected thing occurred: a drop of blood fell upon the back of my hand. I looked up and saw that Holmes had his right hand over his nose, trying to stop or to hide the bleeding quite unsuccessfully, as the blood was dripping from his chin directly on his chest. 

“Holmes,” cried I, as if a bucket of cold water had been thrown over me, and I sprang up in alarm. “What’s the matter?”

“You are the doctor. What do you think it is the matter?” He answered, suddenly ill-humoured. He was still flushed, but the effect was not so strong in contrast with the bright colour of his blood.

“You have a nose-bleed. A severe one, I’d say,” I answered in a conciliatory manner and, assuming a professional tone in a matter of seconds, I drew my hand to his face. “Let me see.”

“Don’t fuss!” I could not say if he was more annoyed or embarrassed.

“Holmes! let me see.” He moved aside his hand and, rather unwillingly, let me examine his nose.

“Sit down and recline your head. I’m going to fetch my bag.” He looked at me resentfully, as if I were the source of his accident, but eventually he obeyed me and sat in his armchair, leaning his head back. He had his flies still unbuttoned, and I could see that his manhood had not lost all its vigour just yet. Sighing inwardly, I checked myself to see whether I was decent and left the room in a haste. 

In less than a minute, I was back at the sitting-room. Holmes was still sitting in his armchair, with his head back and his right hand over his nose. At the sight of him, I felt something soft and kind, a feeling akin to tenderness mixed with adoration, with a pang of regret and a touch of hopelessness. I also noticed that he had buttoned again his trousers.

“How is it?” I asked in my most medical tone.

“It doesn’t stop. I don’t want my own blood for supper.”

I opened my bag and took some lint, which I dipped in alcohol and went to put it up his bleeding nostrils, but he seized my hand and looked at it suspiciously.

“It is this or your genitals in a basin of cold water. You choose.” He released my hand immediately. 

I took his face between my hands and inserted the lint smoothly into his nostrils. A faint blush remained upon his cheeks and I found myself wishing to make them redder with the warmth of my kisses. Not wanting to let go just yet, I drew out my handkerchief and wiped carefully his chin, his lips, and his nose. Even though I felt his eyes on my face during the whole operation, I did not find the courage to return his gaze. Instead, under the pretence of cleansing his skin, I rubbed softly every dip and every crease of his face, memorizing the pattern of his lightly dark stubble and the feel of that tiny mole at the edge of his jaw. 

It is needless to say that the exercise was useless because his face was still spotted with blood when I finally retreated. Nevertheless, I secretly thanked him for indulging me a little.

“Has it happened to you before?” I asked in a professional tone again.

“Sometimes.” He answered reluctantly.

“Always in the same circumstances?” 

He only shrugged.

“Holmes, I’m speaking to you as your doctor. You might have a condition, so pray take this matter more seriously.” He gave me a venomous look but did not speak. “Increased blood pressure may be a factor of epistaxis, and you are a regular user of cocaine.” 

“It happened occasionally before I fixed the solution to a seven per cent.” He admitted.

“And afterwards?”

“Not with cocaine.”

I waited for him to continue.

“Only when...” He waved his hand eloquently.

“Does it happen every time?” I inquired, seriously concerned.

“Every time?” he asked in return, giving me a scandalized look. “Can you imagine that?”

“How often, then?”

“I don’t know, I don’t exactly keep the count.”

I take myself for a very patient man, but this conversation was testing my limits.

“For God’s sake, can’t you see that this could be the symptom of a more serious condition? How often, Holmes?” 

“Hardly ever! Has nobody told you that you have a rather imposing bedside manner?”

“Well, you can be my master elsewhere but not here,” said I in my best commanding voice.

He stared at me looking deeply impressed by my statement.

“Only once in the last few months and I can’t even remember the time before that one.”

“It might be inconsequential, then. However, we must keep a close watch on it. You will inform me if it occurs again.”

“Yes, doctor.”

I approached him under the excuse of checking the lint, although the real reason was that I wanted to touch his face again. I became aware that my hopeless heart began to beat faster every time I was near him, and that it had nothing to do with lust or physical desire.

“You should keep it inside twenty minutes more and then you can remove it and wash your face,” I said, looking at him in the eye.

“Thank you, doctor,” he answered, looking at my chin.

A man braver than I would have lowered his head to kiss those blood stains away. Any other man would have said anything other than my “Good night, Holmes.”

  
I made my way up to my bedroom with the heavy burden of a completely new discovery: I loved him. I loved him exactly as I had loved my wife and even ten times stronger in whatever direction that love could grow. 


	8. Chapter 8

That startling revelation and the memory of the previous night left me a bittersweet aftertaste that I noticed since the moment I woke up. To the insistent physical frustration, I had to add the emotional despair of knowing that my feelings would never be returned.

A battle of conflicting sentiments besieged me: the hope to repeat our aborted attempt to have congress on one hand, and a certain scruple against it on the other. The cause of that scruple was no other than my being an old-fashioned romantic, who could not envision a scenario in the same circumstances without feeling cheap and used. Even if I thought that spending an hour or twenty with him in that fashion was far more than anybody in my situation had the right to expect, the bitterness did not disappear.

Holmes was already at the table when I entered the room. He was in his dressing-gown and still unshaved and I would have rubbed my lips sore against his jaw.

During our breakfast, my friend did not do any talking. He read his papers one after the other deeply concentrated until he let the last one fall onto the floor with an unsatisfied sigh.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing at all.”

I had come to fear even a week long of inactivity, for I knew well what danger lay right after that. Pathetically, I wished he would turn to me instead.

“Surely you can find some other work to do,” said I, pointing with my finger to a pile of documents in one corner of the room.

“It is relieving to know that I can always rely on my good old Watson to entertain me,” said he, with his usual whimsical smile.

“I certainly endeavour to do so.”

“Do you?”

“How is your nose?”

Again appeared that sudden blush that I found so becoming on him. Holmes brushed the tip of his nose with the back of his fingers.

“Perfectly sound.”

He sprang to his feet in a swift movement and went to the rack to take a pipe, which he lighted with a coal. Then, he came near the back of my chair and touched my neck absentmindedly. Before he could take it away, I covered his hand with mine.

“Have you any engagement for tonight?” he asked quietly.

“No.”

“Don’t make any. You have an appointment with me.”

“Anything you say.”

“Watson,” he said in an unsteady voice.

The sound of the steps of our landlady on the stairs made Holmes jump away.

The rest of the morning he spent bending over his low-power microscope while I worked in the recountal of our last case. The pile of documents stayed untouched exactly where they were.

At noon, the doorbell rang. Holmes straightened himself up and waited attentively, but no client came in. With a sound of resigned frustration, he made use of the interruption to pace about the room and to stretch himself. I followed with my eyes his long, thin form and I had to control the impulse to go to him, put my arms around him and press his body against mine.

“How is it going?” I asked instead.

“As expected. I’m adding aluminium hydroxide to a ferric sulphate solution.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

He smiled and shook his head. Then he produced his cigarette case, selected a cigarette and lighted it without returning the case to his pocket. He stood there, smoking leisurely and observing me in his own peculiar fashion. Then, he opened the case again and deliberately lighted a second cigarette, which he offered to me.

“Thank you,” I said, taking it from his fingers and raising it to my lips. Holmes’s neutral expression changed as he watched attentively how we shared a second-hand kiss. I had a wicked wish to see any vestige on his lips of my rough treatment from the night before, but after his shave, his appearance was the same as always. It seemed as if those few minutes of shared lust were no more than a dream and yet, that very night I would be able to see him, once more, needy and wanting and with his whole attention upon me. I only had to find the courage to kiss him. I should not ask for more. That would have to be enough.

Holmes finished his cigarette and tossed the stub into the fire. Still looking at me, he lifted his hand to his face and brushed something imaginary off his lips. Having done so, he seemed to start from a reverie and, clearing his throat, he went back to his microscope.

From my chair, I could see his profile as he bent over the table and worked on his chemicals. A lock of hair had fallen upon his forehead, but he was not due for a haircut for another two weeks, and so it did not bother him in the least. In my heart of hearts, I adored the boyish air that the fringe conferred him.

I attempted to concentrate again on my notebook, but the persistent ache in my chest did not allow me a moment of rest. Turning my head to my friend, I found him looking at me with a strange expression. The ache in my chest increased.

“Watson, can you help me?”

“Certainly. What do you need?” I said, getting up.

“I need the hands of a surgeon.”

“You are lucky, then. What do I have to do?”

“Pour this gently into that test tube,” he said, giving me a smoky Florence flask.

“It’s very narrow,” said I, and crouched down with the vessel in my right hand.

“That’s why I called you.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to use a pipette?”

“Yes, but that would mean a few degrees less. Can’t you do it?”

As gently and slowly as I could, I managed to transfer the liquid into the test tube successfully, for which I felt stupidly proud. As I was offering him back the flask, Holmes took my hand and examined it for a few seconds. His skin felt pleasantly warm, and I thought it was rather odd because my friend’s hand were usually colder than mine.

“What would I do without you, Watson?”

“You could have done it yourself, your hands are steady enough.”

“Not today,” he said in a low voice and cast his eyes down. I wished with all my soul that it were a sign of a deeper emotion in my friend’s heart and I searched his face for it.

“Are you unwell?” I inquired, raising my left hand to his forehead to comb his hair with my fingers, but he pushed my hand away.

“You know I am not.”

“Sorry,” I said, bitterly hurt, and moved away. “From now on I’ll touch you only when you grant me permission.”

“Watson,” he said. But I waved my hand in a dismissing gesture (one of his own, in fact) and returned to my seat. If he could not stand an innocent caress, much less he would allow me a loving kiss. And yet… and yet I would continue with all this.

“Watson.”

I looked at him with an insolent expectation.

“My dear Watson, you know my ways, I can’t behave differently just because…”

“I know.”

“If I… If I appear to be somewhat… tactless or clumsy, I beg you to forgive me. There are things I cannot explain.”

“Don’t concern yourself about it,” said I, tersely, turning my eyes to my notebook.

If I was honest with myself, I had to admit that he was right. This was not a love story, it had never meant to be one, and until yesterday, I was not even aware that this kind of relationship could be possible between us. And now that I had acknowledged my love for him, it was my responsibility to deal with this sentiment, for only a fool could demand love from a man like Holmes. I had to stop being a fool.

The rest of the day we spent brooding in our own ways, with few or no words. Sometimes I could have sworn I felt his eyes upon me, and some others, my gaze travelled across the room until it met his long and gaunt body, still bending over his chemicals and his microscope.

During the dinner, Holmes hardly ate a mouthful. He looked restless and fidgeted constantly with every object on the table. I thought it was better not to make any comment about it.

When Mrs. Hudson finally retired the dishes and left us alone, my friend lighted his evening pipe and called my name with his back turned to me.

“Yes, Holmes?” I asked, coldly.

“Are you still interested in…” he started in his familiar strident tones, but he was apparently unable to finish the sentence in such a nonchalant manner.

If I was expecting a way out of this miserable situation, that was my opportunity. I remained silent for some minutes and perceived how my friend’s shoulders stooped a little and how he rested a hand on the back of his chair in a tired gesture.

I could not find the strength to deny him.

“Holmes,” I simply said, and I saw him nodding slowly. When he began to speak, his voice was barely audible.

“You are... unwilling because of my clumsiness of this morning. I was not rejecting you out of… It was not caprice. I know you meant it kindly.”

“It is precisely my kindness what you do not want from me. Not in this.”

“I know you want to help me. I asked this of you and you complied. I am grateful.”

“You just don’t want my kindness in this… business.”

He looked at me with such a sad expression that I felt something breaking in my chest.

“I’m not unwilling,” I assured him, and he smiled at me briefly with the same sad expression in his eyes.

“But is this not a weird mood to engage in such activities?”

“Not the most appropriate, no.”

“I have… something. Do you mind waiting some minutes?”

“Not in the least.”

He nodded and, wrapping his dressing-gown around his lean body, he turned and left to his room, closing the door behind him.

I heard him use the wash-basin with a resigned smile upon my lips, while I imagined him performing his ablutions with meticulous efficiency.

About ten minutes later, his door opened and Holmes appeared behind, wearing his shirt and trousers, and over them an open dressing-gown. He also had a book in his hand.

“I have thought that, perhaps, we could make use of a little help,” he said, entering the sitting room and shaking the book in his upraised arm.

“Of course,” I said with very little enthusiasm.

He threw the book at me with a flustered air, and then he settled himself cross-legged on his armchair, waving me to the other one.

Reluctantly, I sat down, opened the book and read its title: _Sins of the City of the Plane_ by Jack Saul.

The first chapter began  with a very detailed description of a masturbatory scene _a deux_ , along with imaginative and somewhat ridiculous epithets and metaphors like the hideous “tremendous length of sausage” which made Holmes snort. Some gamahuching followed, as well as a short flagellation scene not very worth the while, in my modest opinion. When we finally reached the scene of the coitus, Holmes spoke.

“Is not saliva an extremely poor lubricant?”

“Extremely poor,” I confirmed. He nodded.

“Have you…?”

“I have never used exclusively saliva, no.” He looked at me as if expecting some more elaboration and I closed the book.

“What do you want to know?”

“Have you ever...?”

“Yes. Only with women.”

“It is not that there is a very significant difference.”

“Not in this.” He gave me a brief smile and reclined his head on the back of his armchair.

“Go on.”

I did.

The story drifted to the first experiences of our main character Jack with his chubby cousin and afterwards his introduction to orgies in a boarding school. By then, I was expecting a new interruption on Holmes’s part, and I was not proven wrong.

“Did it happen to you in the same fashion?”

“No, it certainly did not,” I answered curtly.

Again there was an expectant look upon his face. I felt suddenly tired.

“Dear Holmes, I don’t know whether you are aware of it or not, but this is a fantasy. Very little of this is real.”

“Well, at least the mechanics…,” he said defensively.

“The mechanics! Who can endure this amount of exertion all day, every day? Most of the characters in these books hardly do anything else!” I hesitated before going further. “Holmes, this kind of literature only serves one purpose, and let me tell you, it is not to educate middle-aged consulting detectives.”

He stared at me with a look of offended surprise.

“And pray tell what other way did I have of acquiring this knowledge? No, really, tell me.” He prompted me with an inviting gesture of his hand.

“Have you never thought about trying it yourself? In all your life?” He sighed with impatience and seemed almost decided to finish the conversation, but finally, he smiled bitterly.

“With whom, Watson?” He asked with a defeated air. “How old was I when we first met?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven.” He nodded. “You have known me for about fifteen years and lived with me for seven or eight. How many opportunities do you fancy I had before I met you? And after? You should know by now that I just cannot do this sort of thing with anybody!” He said with some heat.

These words and the meaning implied in them were the most valuable gift I had ever received from him. But at the same time, I could not help but notice how needy I was, how very deprived, that even an indirect form of appreciation moved me as few things had done. I cleared my throat because I did not confide in the steadiness of my voice.

“And in the meantime, you expected to learn about it in pornography?”

“Books are always a source of information.” He said, shrugging.

“Holmes, pornography is full of misconceptions.”

“I know it exaggerates and simplifies things. I may be inexpert, Watson, not gullible. But even so, in what other way could I have found out in detail what people do and how, what sort of things they like, what is considered normal and what not? Should I have asked you? I certainly was not going to try everything myself!”

Leaving the book in the side table, I rose up and went to take a cigarette from the case on my desk. I lighted one and offered another to him but he shook his head.

“I had guessed you were making this particular collection to gather information,” said I after having sat down again. He was not looking in my direction. Instead, he seemed to be fascinated by the capricious forms of the flames dancing in the fireplace.

“That was not the only reason.” He uttered some minutes later.

“Wasn’t it?”

“Well,” he continued, “although I have never indulged much in this sort of activity, I have to admit that I never missed the fact that they served other purposes rather than to educate consulting detectives.” There was a self-mocking smile of his face when he turned it to me. “As a result, I have a wonderful variety of second-hand experiences.”

My heart gave a bound.

“Look at it this way, they would have been a waste otherwise.”

“That doesn’t make it less pathetic.” He said, once more gazing the fire. “And you, being a doctor, surely have a good collection of medical reasons against it.”

“Holmes, in the majority of cases, masturbation does little harm to the body. Moreover, it would be dreadfully hypocritical of me to reprehend you for this,” I admitted with an equally open frankness as I had never thought I could share with Holmes.

“I don’t really indulge myself very often. I know what self-restraint is, despite your opinion to the contrary.”

“I know you can endure long periods of abstinence if you so decide it.”

“I...” he made a pause before continuing, as though the words were hard  to pronounce, “...confess I have become more intrigued by the whole matter as of late. It is difficult for me to keep myself cold and distant when I’m intrigued.” He cast a glance in my direction but did not meet my eyes. “I’m a man of flesh and blood, just like you.”

At these words, I pictured in my mind our aborted carnal encounter from the night before and remember how I had manhandled him at my free will. At this point, my heart was beating madly and a part of me only wanted to finish the talk and finally give him what he so obviously needed.

“Hence the book exchange,” I managed to say.

“My dear Watson, I would have never foreseen you would be interested in…” He sighed unsteadily and fidgeted in his seat. “The mere possibility that some of my... fanciful dreams… may come true is keeping me very distracted.”

“You do... have obscene thoughts.”

“Almost constantly now. I should be ashamed,” he said in a breathy voice and finally met my gaze.

“Tell me about them.”

“Watson.”

“Please,” I begged.

“I… what about yourself?”

“What?

“Tell me what you like.”

“Oh, many things.”

He nodded with a keen expression on his face and parted his lips.

“Tell me one.”

“I don’t know.”

He blinked and wetted his lips.

“Please.”

“I’d rather show you.”

“Oh yes, show me.”

I got up, and in two steps I was kneeling beside his chair. At the light of the fire, his eyes looked almost black and his skin had the reddish tint of desire. Fearing another nosebleed, I touched his face with my hands and stroked his aquiline nose.

“How are you feeling?”

His breath was laboured and his eyelids were half-closed.

“Randy.”

A delicious shiver ran over me.

“Holmes,” I whispered, kneeling up and circling the back of his neck with my hand to draw his head to my shoulder. I was terribly uncertain as to what I should do. Even though I was in a similar state of desperation, I simply could not turn this sublime and unique experience into a sordid and debauched encounter.

“No more talking. I cannot wait any longer,” said he, while he moved his hand over my torso, in an excited fashion.

“Holmes.”

“Now, Watson,” he demanded. And then, in a breathy voice, “I’ll let you do anything to me.”

“All right, all right,” I said, half blind with desire.

“Anything you want. Now, please.” He was becoming impatient.

“Yes, yes.”

I withdrew from him and, along with a wave of lust at the sight of his face, an overwhelming feeling of tenderness washed over me. Looking out of himself, with blotches of red on his cheeks, blown up pupils and a breathing rate of at least sixty-five inhalations per minute, he was so far from his usually cold and disdainful demeanour that I knew it was my opportunity. I stopped his hands, which were wandering nervously over my chest and my shoulders.

“Holmes.”

“I want to touch you.”

“Holmes.”

“Now.”

“Yes. Yes. But listen to me first… It… it will have to be this way.”

He gave me a confused look.

“What way?”

As slowly and determinedly as I was capable, I brought my lips to his face and brushed them over his cheek, spreading a string of sweet, tiny kisses toward his mouth. When I reached his lips, I felt more than heard a gasp of air.

“Like this,” I breathed into his mouth and I kissed him.

He remained as still as a stone for a few seconds, and then he tried to reciprocate with a clumsy eagerness. His hands grabbed my arms almost painfully, and I heard a sudden intake of breath followed by a strange sobbing sound. I stopped to look at his face.

“Holmes!”

“Stop,” he whispered, not quite meeting my eyes. “Please stop this.”

“What is the matter? Please, tell me.”

“Don’t play with me.” He said through quivering lips.

“I’m not playing with you. I’ll do whatever you say, whatever you want, but please don’t ignore me.”

“Ignore you? How could I ignore you?”

“Let me be with you like this, it’s all I’m asking. I’m not asking you to love me, but let me, please, let me...”

He became all flustered and his body started to tremble.

“Why are you doing this… this travesty of…?” A tear appeared in one of his eyes and ran down his cheek.

“Because I can’t be with you like that! Because I am not a character in a pornographic novel! I have feelings!” He opened his mouth to speak but I did not let him utter a sound. “And don't you dare mention the brothel!” I breathed for a minute. “I am not going to ask you for something you cannot give. We’ll stop this whenever you wish it to end but meanwhile,” my voice broke, “let me show you how… I…”

“I wasn’t going to mention…” He shook his head and bit his lip. “You can’t be serious.” He blinked and a fresh stream of tears coursed down his cheeks. My heart contracted and something tightened in my throat.

“But why is this affecting you so much?” I asked, puzzled by his tears. “I... cannot lie. I do not know how to lie to you!” I exclaimed in a brittle voice while striving in vain to regain my composure. “I know this is not what you expected from me.”

“Watson.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh Watson, what have I done?”

“I’m not going to hold you responsible for my sentiments. You have no need to concern yourself about them.”

He sobbed.

“Oh, but I am, and I do.”

“But why? Why are you…?” He did not let me finish, as he dropped to his knees in front of me, drew his face to mine and kissed me very timidly. His lips were a little dry and salty.

In that moment, I did not understand what was happening to him. The strong-willed, self-reliant, distant and often aloof man that I knew so well was changed into a trembling shade of my friend. His short, tiny and almost chaste kisses betrayed his lack of experience. I felt the gentle touch of his fingers upon my face as Holmes withdrew his lips.

“I like how it feels,” he whispered, brushing softly my mustache with his fingertips. “I had always wondered…, ah, I never thought I could…” And he kissed me again, more strongly, as he could not help himself.

Faced with such an honest display of passion from my companion, my heart gave a jump in my breast. I placed my hands on each side of his head and took charge of the kiss.

With all the eagerness of a long-repressed yearning, I fastened upon his lips as if that were the last time I could have him in my arms. I kissed him sweetly, madly, in a frantic desire to make him understand how deep my feelings were.

A soft whining sound at the back of his throat made my blood boil with excitement. I parted my lips and gave him a hundred of open-mouthed kisses, biting him gently and stroking him with my tongue. He opened like a flower to me and let me took his mouth with abandon. Groaning in pleasure, I started to assault his mouth leisurely, rhythmically, as I imagined I would do if we were even more intimately engaged.

Holmes’s moaning became constant and maddening. He put his body against mine and let his arms wander over my back. His strong, nervous fingers kneaded my muscles sending shivers of pleasure to my groin. Realising that I could, I did the same to him, and emboldened by his obvious signs of encouragement, I took hold of his buttocks and pressed him to my body. Holmes’s response was  enrapturing. He whined inside my mouth and, removing one of his hands from my back to place it over one of mine, he squeezed it and slid it over his rump. The other hand he placed on my groin, stroking my sex through my trousers. Then he broke the kiss and met my eyes with a shy questioning look. This was a point of no return.

“Holmes?” I asked.

“Would you do it? To me?” He moved my hand to the crack of his buttocks.

I imagined him in the throes of passion, wriggling under me, unfastened, desperate, undone. Like nobody had seen him before.

“Oh, I would,” I answered, using the fingers of my free hand to fondle his perineum through the fabric of his trousers from behind.

He gasped and moved his knees to open his legs wider but then, inexplicably, he sobbed and I drew back my hand.

“What’s the matter?”

Obviously trying to interrupt this new emotional outbreak, he kissed me with fervour.

“Holmes!”

“Nothing,” he answered with a trembling voice, his  breath warm against my cheek. “I never thought you would agree to do this to me.” A rebel tear escaped from his eyes and he wiped it with an angry gesture. “And now you know why I always have to keep such a tight rein on my emotions.”

“My dear...”

“We should do this in my room.” He asserted decisively. It surprised me how he could be so practical even in such circumstances.

“We should, yes.”

“It’s the proper thing to do. Let us do this properly.”

My bad knee protested when I tried to stand up, but Holmes grabbed my arm and helped me to my feet. Then he kissed me again as if he had become addicted to my lips. It was for me a fairly new sensation, as I was not accustomed to kissing somebody taller than I.

“I’m quite fond of your face,” he said after a long, busy silence. “So masculine and yet so gentle.” He stroked my features very softly with his fingers and his lips and a tickling sensation filled my stomach. I felt a mad impulse to fall on my knees and to declare my undying love to him, but instead, I took one of his hands and pressed a kiss upon his palm.

“I have dreamt about your hands.”

He kept silent, stroking my fingers with one of his hands while he drew the other to my groin and began palming me through my trousers.

“I have been thinking all day about what you did to my mouth yesterday… about the taste of your fingers.” And without further ado he took one in his mouth whilst he continued rubbing my groin.

My heart was beating madly, and not because of the physical stimulus, but because of the unusual display of weakness from my dearest friend and companion.

He wore an expression of utter bliss, with his eyes closed, his eyebrows knitted together and his cheeks hollowed, sucking my finger with the same enthusiasm of the night before. I could not help but groan at the sight he made, to which he answered with a deep moan while his hips began to jerk a little, moving his groin back and forth, humping the air pathetically. Such desperation excited me.

Taking pity on him, I grabbed him through his trousers and he pressed against my hand.

“Let us go to your room already,” I demanded hoarsely. Breathing through his nose and moaning again with his eyes still closed, he nodded.

The short way to the bedroom was not without interruptions. My friend seemed drugged with arousal and his hand or his lips searched my body almost at every step.

Nevertheless, when we finally entered his room and closed the door behind us, his countenance became suddenly nervous and shy. I held him against the door and sucked the skin below his ear.

“Are you really sure about this?” he asked feebly.

“Of course, I am sure,” I answered roughly. “Get your clothes off.”

“I warn you that I’m very male.”

I caressed his chest with my open hand.

“I should hope so.”

I felt him shiver. Then he dropped his dressing gown and began to fumble with trembling hands, to undo his shirt and collar.

“Watson,”

“What?”

“Pull it out.”

“What?”

“I’m burning to see your penis. Pull it out,” he said in a shaking voice. Such words, which I had never expected to hear from Holmes’s lips, sent new waves of lust through my body.

With my gaze fixed upon the black hairs of his sinewy chest, I undid my flies and produced my half-erect member. The low, whining sigh from Holmes made me harden completely. He had his shirt unbuttoned, and his hands on his flies. His breast was heaving and there was a look of an intense yearning upon his keen face. He did not avert his piercing gray eyes from my groin for some long seconds.

“Don’t you want to feel it?” I asked, holding myself in my hand invitingly.

Sighing deeply, he fell onto his knees in front of me and drew both of his hands to my groin. The first contact of his fingers on my skin sent a shiver down my spine.

Almost with reverence, Holmes circled his left hand over the base of my organ and brushed experimentally the fingertips of his right hand up and down the rod. He wore an intent expression upon his face, which reminded me of the thousand of times that I had seen him in deep concentration during the course of a criminal investigation. When he placed his fingertips over my prepuce and slid it back completely, his face relaxed into an expression of lecherous awe. I would have given the rest of my wound pension for a photograph of that face, so very precious and rare it was.

Moistening his lower lip, he gave a tentative tug on my penis with his left hand and held it up to examine the underside. Then, he entertained himself with my frenulum, which he stroked in circular motions with a fingertip until my penis pulsed and a bead of clear fluid appeared at the tip.

He made a strange sound between a groan and a sigh and looked up at my face. I nodded.

The sight of such an intimate part of my body disappearing between Holmes’s lips shook me deeper than the physical sensation itself. He closed his eyes with a dreamy air and began to suck on my glans, rubbing the flat of his tongue over my slit. Shivering with emotion and excitement, I both felt and heard his moans of pleasure and, emboldened, I encouraged him to masturbate me with his left hand. He raised his glazed gray eyes to fix them on mine, then nodded and even attempted to take more of my length into his mouth as he mimicked the movements of his hand with his head.

It was not, by far, the best fellatio I had ever received, but it was indeed the most enthusiastically performed. The rhythm was all wrong and I could feel his teeth a few times, but his face, the sounds he uttered and his clutching nervous fingers on my thigh were worth a million. My heart ached to see him so invested in something he had obviously wanted to do for a long time, and when I heard him gag around me, I lovingly combed back his soft black hair with my fingers and called his name.

“I’m afraid my technique is faulty,” he said, with a little shy smile after he had pulled my member out of his mouth.

“I find it charming and very effective,” I said, stroking his reddened and swollen lips with my fingers.

“You’re just laughing at me,” he protested.

“No, no, no. Come up here,” I said, seizing him by the arms, “let me take care of you.”

I kissed him tenderly and slid his shirt off his shoulders. He had a fair skin but quite hairy. His arms were lean but muscular, and the veins, tendons, and muscles could be plainly distinguished. His chest was covered with dark hair and his nipples were two hard peaks jutting from his breast. His trousers, still on but undone, were bulging at the groin. He was indeed very male. I felt a sharp pang of apprehension, but still I reached out to his drawers.

“I warned you,” Holmes said in a low voice and grasped my hands to stop me. I looked at his face and my heart shrunk.

“Don’t be silly,” I told him.

“I’m not silly. I know what you are thinking,” he declared uneasily. “We don’t have to…”

I interrupted him with a kiss. My arms went around him, and I drew him close. His back was warm and very smooth, but my stubborn body missed the shape of a woman’s breast.

“Get your trousers off,” I whispered to his very ear, and then I let him go and began to undress myself. Holmes remained motionless, staring at me with a face difficult to read until some thought seemed to cross his mind and finally he lowered his trousers.

His eyes were fixed on my body as I stripped, but his whole manner was hesitant and shy. When I stood stark naked in front of him, I saw how his gaze wandered slowly and hungrily over my body, lingering on the scar of my wound, on my chest and on my groin. As he did not approach me, I took two steps towards him.

“Aren’t you taking these off?” I asked, touching his drawers with my fingers. He shrugged a shoulder, licked his lips and blinked rapidly a few times.

“You may touch all you want,” I told him. He raised his hand and, very timidly, brushed my scar with a fingertip, looking at my face as though to see my reaction. It was evident that he was nervous, and even a little frightened.

“Holmes,” I seized that shy hand on my shoulder and kissed it. “I really want to do this,” I assured him with a certainty that I did not possess.

He closed his eyes, and his mouth made a brief pained gesture.

“I’m sorry. This situation is quite out of my province.”

“Nonsense,” I retorted, caressing his flushed cheeks, which were smooth as if he had just shaved. “Let me kiss you,” I murmured against his mouth. With heavy-lidded eyes, he nodded.

His mouth was as hot as a furnace and, despite my untimely vacillation, I could not help but wonder how it would feel to be buried inside him.

Holmes interrupted the kiss to look at me with some indecision, and then he undid his drawers and took them off. The time of reckoning had arrived.

I swallowed my hesitation as well as I could as I lowered my eyes very slowly toward his groin. There, I saw a black bush of hair, in the midst of which stood the very proof of my friend’s manhood. It was long, lean and pale as the rest of him and, although the reddish tip was still half covered by the foreskin, the tiny orifice of his urethra was plainly visible.

All my doubts and scruples vanished in an instant.

“May I frig you?” I asked hoarsely, shooting a quick glance at his face.

His eyelids fluttered, he licked his lips and nodded as drugged. It struck me that I could never become tired of Holmes’s aroused expression.

With my eyes feasting upon his enticing face, I wetted my palm with my tongue, laid hold of his erection and began to frig him. The skin of his prick was fevered hot, soft and smooth like satin, sliding and slipping back and forth over the swollen head. The feeling was intoxicating and the view obscenely bewitching.

I heard a whimper and looked up to discover that my friend had his fist in his mouth and he was biting his knuckles.

“Don’t do that,” I said, removing his abused hand from his teeth. Holmes seemed at a loss as to what to do, but he finally placed his hands on my torso and fondled me eagerly. Every part of my body within his reach seemed to provoke him as much pleasure as my touch on his erection, which in turn increased my lecherousness.

“Move your hips,” I suggested, seized by a sudden letch. He paused his fumbling for a second as if trying to understand the purpose of my proposal, and I actually could see when he grasped my meaning, because he moaned and began to thrust gently into my hand with the characteristic rocking motion of the sexual act.

“John,” he whispered, and it nearly made faint with happiness.

“What, my dear?” enquired I.

He was panting, alternating his hazy gaze from my hand on his member to my face.

“Ah…, I don’t want to spend... just yet.”

“Do you still want me to…?” I asked, caressing his buttocks.

“...be up my bum?” he finished breathily. “Oh, yes.”

“God, come here,” I growled, capturing his mouth with my lips and my tongue, my hands grasping his buttocks and pressing his front against mine. My prick was as hard as a brass rod and a similar hardness was rubbing my belly. Holmes’s squirming and tiny noises excited me even more.

“Feel me there, oh, with your fingers,” he requested.

I did as I was told, and touched the hairy crack between his buttocks from the small of his back to his scrotum and back again. He whimpered, breaking the kiss and letting his forehead rest upon my shoulder. When I felt the puckered skin of his anus twitch at the touch of my fingers, I became wild with want.

“I’d bury myself in you straight  away,” I said, rubbing myself against him and circling the rim of his hole with a fingertip.

“Oh, do it, please, do it,” he cried, wriggling in my arms.

Fortunately, I was not so far gone that I could not see how ill-advised our shared letch actually was.

“No, no, we can’t,” I panted, “We must prepare you first.”

“No!” he cried.

“Yes.”

“Watson,” he pronounced almost in his usual masterful voice.

“Holmes, we’ll do as I say or nothing at all,” I replied commandingly.

He disentangled himself from me muttering sullenly that I was a spoilsport and threw himself on the bed.

“Well, aren’t you coming?” he inquired, trying for nonchalance but not quite succeeding.

I sighed and thought how ridiculous we looked, getting back to our usual roles, stark naked and with our pricks standing.

“Do you have any salve?” I inquired. “Or something that can be suitable for this.”

He reflected for a few seconds, then reached under the bed with a long, thin, hairy arm and produced a salve tin.

“This should do,” he said, stretching his arm to me.

“Are you sure this is safe?” I inquired, taking the offered tin and surveying it suspiciously. “This is going to be up your fundament,” I reminded him.

“I’m expecting to have something more substantial up my fundament.”

“We’re just getting to that.”

“About time,” he muttered, eying me.

I sat on the bed and thought about the particular precautions that were necessary.

“Have you ever done this to yourself?”

He shuddered and nodded.

“Just a finger,” he answered, looking at my hands. My erection twitched.

“Lie back and put a pillow under your hips.”

His glassy eyes were fixed on my groin.

“Holmes!”

He stared at me as if he had just awakened from a trance.

“What?”

I took a pillow and gave it to him.

“Lie back and put this under your hips.”

“Do not take too long,” he said, following my instructions and bending up his knees.

“I'm just as keen as you are.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he touched himself with his fingertips. My prick twitched again.

I spread him open and stroke his perineum with a finger. It was sweaty, and his anus quivered as my finger passed over it. Opening the tin with a trembling hand, I took a dollop of the ointment and smeared his entrance with it. The effect of the creamy whiteness on his hairy crack was positively obscene.

It was not the first time that I had performed this operation, both as a doctor and as a lover, but never before I had been so anxious or so flustered. When I inserted a digit, Holmes whimpered and the hand on his prick started to move in earnest. It was a filthy spectacle. I waited for a few seconds and next, feeling around, I noticed a slight lump near the entrance. I passed my fingertip over it to ascertain myself, but there was no room for doubt.

“Holmes…”

“I know exactly what you are going to say so, please, don’t say it now.” His eyes were still closed but his hand had stopped.

“Holmes, I’m a doctor, I cannot ignore something like this and simply go on.”

“Oh, Watson,” he said, opening his eyes and lifting himself upon his elbows. “Why do you bring up your profession every time we try to do this?” he asked reproachfully. I ignored him.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“It is a little swollen.”

“An attribute inherent to its very nature, as you very well know.”

“What I didn’t know is that you suffered from…”

“Nor does anyone else.” I heard the warning in his voice.

“Holmes, I’m not sure we can…,” I looked at him, at his face, his neck and his chest all flushed up and covered with perspiration, at his prick, standing stiffly with the tip red and moist. “Although it doesn’t look like a severe case of hemorrhoids, we ought to proceed with the utmost care, or this could become very painful.”

“I rely on your skill.”

“That’s easy for you to say! If I cause you a fissure... believe me, you wouldn’t want an infection there.”

“This is just the conversation I want to have now,” he muttered under his breath, throwing himself back upon the bed and pressing his hand to his forehead.

I felt lost for a minute.

“We could do plenty of other things,” I assured him at last. And to demonstrate it, I inserted in my mouth the head of his penis. It was hot and smooth, and possibly the most delicate and precious thing I had ever hold between my lips. There was a long moan. I looked at my friend’s face and found him staring at me with a face full of emotion.

“But I want you to bugger me,” he whispered.

Groaning, I took his prick to the back of my throat, buried my nose in his pubic  hair, and started to move my head up and down, sucking him with all my soul. With sighs of passion, Holmes put his hand on my hair and opened his legs wider.

“Bugger me, please, John... Ah! Please, fuck me. Fuck me.”

I pulled out his erect rod from my mouth and wiped my lips with the back of my hand.

“With care,” I panted and inserted a greasy finger into his anus.

“Just give it to me, ah, give it to me. I cannot wait any longer.”

I took his prick in one hand and proceeded to frig him whilst I distended his hole with the fingers of the other. Holmes was breathing heavily and loudly, and with his characteristic restlessness, his hands began to wander over his body, from his groin to his chest and down again. When one of his fingers grazed his left nipple he moaned and, apparently unable to stop himself, he rubbed his sternum with his open palms and then started to rub his thumbs against the puckered flesh of his nipples. On this occasion, I moaned lewdly.

“Do you like to pinch them?”  

“Nobody does that,” he panted.

“But you do.”

He nodded and smiled.

“Yes… yes, I do.”

“Then pinch them, pinch them for me.”

“Aah,” he moaned, yielding to pleasure. I already had two fingers inside him and started to insert a third. I feared that neither I nor he could endure the wait.

“How many fingers?” He asked.

“Three, there are three fingers up your arsehole, darling.”

He moaned.

“Show me, show me,” he requested, extending one long arm towards me, with his hand outstretched and his palm facing upwards in a begging gesture. When I released his cock and tried to take his hand, he grasped my fingers tightly and almost devoured them with his eyes, wearing a hungry expression upon his sweaty and reddened face.

“Aah, shove them!” he exclaimed letting go of my hand and starting to frig himself again. “Shove them into me, shove them hard.”

“No, not hard,” I said very softly, but he seemed too distracted to hear me.

“Oh John, can’t you just fuck me already?” He asked piteously, and I had to close my eyes, as every time he mentioned my name, I felt a keen pang of pleasure.

“I don’t want to hurt you, my dear.”

“Please, John,” and the eager expression of his thin face suddenly changed into a naughty smile before adding, “shove that tremendous length of sausage up my arsehole.”

“Holmes!” I cried and chuckled, remembering the source of that atrocious metaphor. He giggled heartily.

“I’m sorry,” he said, catching his breath, “I wanted to see your face.” And here he giggled again.

I extracted my fingers slowly, but he grunted anyway.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” he replied with a beautiful smile on his lips. I felt more in love than I had ever been before, and some of this must have been visible upon my face because he looked shy all of a sudden.

“What?” he asked.

“You are very attractive like this.”

“Nonsense. I look ridiculous.”

I took myself on my hand and applied a good amount of salve on my prick.

“Then I must look ridiculous too.”

He stared at me and a flash of longing sprang into his eyes before he spoke again.

“John.”

A violent shudder ran through my frame as I touched his entrance with my glans. Savouring the feeling of anticipation, I rubbed the tip of my cock over his perineum before I started to press into him.

“John,” he exhaled my name.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

“It’s too much and not near enough.”

“I only wish to give you pleasure,” I said, huskily, watching my glans disappear inside his body.

“Wait, wait,” he whispered.

“It’s only the head,” I was sweating with the effort of restraining myself. “Do you  want me to pull it out?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head.

“My dear...”

“Give me a moment,” one of my hands was on his thigh, and he grasped it very tightly. I felt him relax around me and then he nodded.

“Sure?”

He grunted and nodded again, so I proceeded, inch by inch, until I felt that I was fully encased in his body. Not quite believing it, I looked down and saw my prick up to its roots in him, and I shuddered.

“I’m inside you.”

He wetted his lips with his tongue and panted a little. He was frowning.

“Move,” he said, although his voice was barely audible.

I pulled my prick out, leaving only the tip lodged inside his anus, and pushed back in.

Holmes’s face relaxed with a sigh and he stared at me through his half-closed lids.

“How are you?”

“I’m afraid,” he licked his lips. “Move again.”

Following his instruction to the letter, as was my habit, I repeated my movements, still gently but a bit quicker this time. He grunted.

“About what?” I asked. And then, on a totally different topic, but more relevant to the circumstances, I added, “Is it good?”

He nodded and swallowed, and I started to move in and out slowly and steadily.

“You, regretting all this,” he answered to my first question.

“Never.”

He gasped and angled his hips upwards to make the penetration easier.

“Yes, you will. You’ll get tired of me, of my bad moods… you’ll want a normal life… a wife.” His words were uttered in no more than a thin thread of voice.

“No!” I exclaimed deeply offended, and I speeded up.

“This is more than I ever expected. I never thought you would… have… this kind of… ah! Not for me.”

“I love you.”

“Ah!” He cried and shuddered in the most delicious manner, making me feel his rectum contracting tightly around my shaft. I moaned as I felt a great and powerful current of love flow between our joined bodies. With a countenance full of emotion, Holmes grabbed my hand.

“Oh, it will hurt. It’s going to hurt so much, oh, John, ah!”

“Please, let me… let me love you. I’m all yours.”

He gave a sob.

“I can lose you. I could not lose you before, but I can lose you now.”

“Don’t lose me.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Never, never… ah! never.”

By that moment we were fucking intensely, filling the room with the filthy wet sounds of my prick sliding in and out of my dear companion’s body. The physical gratification was indescribable, overwhelming, and more fulfilling now that we had explicitly declared our sentiments. I placed a hand over his heart: it was beating hard against his ribs, pumping blood and life through his veins. His flat chest, hairy and covered in a sticky sweat, with his firm muscles and erect nipples, was all flushed and red and, despite my previous experience, I found it right then the most arousing bosom I had ever had the pleasure to fondle.

After a particularly hard thrust, Holmes made a grimace of discomfort and I stopped, alarmed.

“Is there any pain?”

“No,” he answered, shaking his head. “No, but…” he frowned, “I’m getting tired of this posture.”

Sighing in relief, I nodded.

“Let us try it dog-fashion,” I said, pulling my member out of his channel. He grunted.

“Now I feel empty,” he admitted, panting a little with a shy smile. I imprinted a sound kiss upon his lips.

“Turn around, darling.” He did, and placed himself on his hands and knees, with his elevated rump facing me. I made use of the interruption to re-anoint my erection with salve, so when I entered him this time, it was easily and smoothly, and Holmes welcomed it with and obscenely loud moan.

“I like how it feels, ah, being full of you,” he said in a low, sensual voice, leaning on his elbows and forearms. He lowered his chest and his head until his forehead rested on his hands and lifted his buttocks, making my prick go deeper inside him.

I groaned and slid a hand from his arse to the back of his neck, where his hair was wet and sticky with sweat, and began to fuck him in earnest.

“Better?”

“Ah, yes…, better,” he said, trying to spread his legs wider. “Ah, fuck me, fuck me…”

Such lewd words coming from his pristine lips stirred my lust and made me desperate to obey him more than ever. I watched my cock gliding in and out of his arsehole and felt delirious at the mere sight. This was Sherlock Holmes, my dearest friend and companion, the greatest detective, the man whom I had repeatedly accused of being an unfeeling machine. His virgin heart and virgin body were open, exposed, freely offered, and that fact aroused me almost as much as the obscene and lecherous display he was making.

Moving one hand around his middle section, I felt for his prick. His glans was slippery, oozing a copious amount of fluid. The combination of smoothness and viscosity on my fingers inflamed me even further, sending filthy images and awakening letches that I did not know I had.

“You are dripping,”

“Ah, touch me, frig me, John.”

“You haven’t spent yet and look how slippery it is.”

“Ah!”

“I want to see you spend, I want to see you spending all over your bed. Would you show me? Would you?”

He gave a loud moan and wriggled under me.

“Oh, John, yes, make me spend, oh John,” he asked urgently and drawing a hand to his groin, he tried to frig himself.

“Let me do it,” I said and moved his hand away. I started to rub his prick up and down at the same speed as my thrusts with my fingers coated with his pre-seminal fluids. “Did you imagine us like this? Ah, fucking like this?”

“Ah! Ah! Don’t stop! Oh, John, fuck me, there, there… yes, ah yes...”

“Oh, lovely, lovely!”

“Push hard, John, ah!” the muscles of his back became taut like a bow-string, as I rammed my prick into him faster and harder. “I'm coming! I'm coming! ah, John! oh, fuck...” he exclaimed breathlessly, and I felt his sperm gushing out from his prick as his inner walls constricted rhythmically around me. “Oh, fuck, oh, fuck…” His skin was damp and shiny and hot as fire against my belly, and I regretted not being able to see his face.

“Your spunk is on my fingers,” I told him.

“Ahh,” he moaned breathily and shuddered, and a last gob of sperm erupted from his cock.

Soon after, his body became limp and soft, presenting a wanton and enticing image of spent passion. I kissed his sticky back ardently and started to pound into him, this time searching for my own release.

“Tell me… ah, tell me if you... ah, want me to… to stop,”

“Nnnhg,”

“You’re lovely, lovely.”

He answered angling up his bottom. My crisis was so near that I was almost sobbing.

“Taste it,” I heard him say.

“What?”

“Taste me, taste my spunk, John.”

“Oh, yes. Oh, oh, yes,” I obeyed him diligently, without questioning. “Oh, lovely, oh, sweet,” I managed to say as I licked his sperm from my palm. And with that unfamiliar taste on my tongue, my body started to vibrate with the most sublime pleasure. My thrusts became shorter and erratic, and then my whole body tensed deliciously.

“Inside, hmmm, spend inside me.”

“Ahh, yes, ah, inside, ahh,” I said, closing my eyes, moaning shamelessly, enjoying our joined flesh to the point of forgetting about myself as I ejaculated into his body, completely lost in ecstasy. Ripples of pleasure went all through my body, my  chest swelled and throbbed with rapture and I could not stop moving because all I wanted was to prolong the stimulus even if my body was already utterly spent.

When the tide finally receded, I collapsed on him, breathing heavily. We both were sticky with sweat and smelly, but I honestly did not remember being more comfortable in my whole life.

Holmes grunted, and I felt the vibration under my chest. Smiling like an idiot, I attempted to put myself further into him, to which he answered by tightening his anal muscles around my exhausted penis.

“Oh, be careful!” I begged him. He laughed tiredly and again I rejoiced at the feeling on my chest.

“I hope you wore condoms the other night,” he said, with a hoarse voice.

“I’m a doctor. I always wear condoms with prostitutes.”

“Always wore.”

“What?”

“You always _wore_ condoms with prostitutes.”

I became aware of a tickling sensation on the pit of my stomach, which I immediately identified as happiness.

“You are right. I always _wore_ condoms with prostitutes,” I admitted, kissing the back of his shoulder and tasting the salt of his sweat. He moaned contentedly under me, and I was on the verge of dozing off when I remembered the condition of his rectum.

“I’m going to pull it out,” I said, chastising myself inwardly for my negligence.

“Do it slowly,” he asked. As my member had already shrunk almost to its normal size, I retreated smoothly, without friction. Then I moved back and spread his buttocks to expose his anus. The sight of my semen leaking out from his hole made me groan, suddenly seized by a vile thirst.

“Anything you want,” Holmes said lazily, surveying me over his shoulder. I kneaded his arse-globes with both hands while devouring his prone figure with my eyes.

“Not today,” I said sternly, with a severity intended to bring me to reason, while I introduced a finger into his orifice and examined his rectum with it. The mucous membrane was smooth and wet, and about one side there was a small mass of a velvety feeling that was a little swollen, but not so much as to be alarming. Partially as a reward to myself, I thrust my finger inside a couple of times before I took it out, which made Holmes shiver and moan.

“You should go and clean yourself.” He looked at me wearing a confused expression upon his face. I winked at him. “You will thank me later.”

Reluctantly, he got up, grimacing charmingly as he put on his nightshirt.

“I think I know what you mean,” he said, as a flush passed over his cheeks.

“I shall wait here if you don’t mind,” I said, petulantly.

He paused at the door and looked at me, and my heart gave a jump when I saw the loving expression on his eyes.  His hair was all disheveled and wild, and there was an unconscious smile playing upon his lips. I had never loved like this before.

“You look well on my bed, Watson,” he said, carelessly.

“Don’t take too long.”

He shook his head and disappeared behind the door.

Shortly afterwards, we were resting naked side by side under the sheets. Holmes smelled beautiful, while I only had managed a quick wash in his washbasin, but he seemed not to mind it in the least.

Suddenly he burst out laughing, and said, “And I pride myself in my powers of observation!”

“What?”

“In all these years, it never occurred to me that we could end up like this.”

“Well, if it is any consolation to you, it never occurred to me either.”

He gave me a silent look.

“I see it isn’t,” I said, resignedly, and he laughed again. Then he turned onto his side and started to run his fingers through my chest hair.

“I hate being wrong, but not in this case.” He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. “I never thought you could…” he did not finish the sentence.

I hesitated before telling him the truth.

“Actually, I never thought about it. Not until I read one of your books.”

Holmes met my eyes steadily.

“It was on the night I spent here during the case of the lost naval treaty. Phelps slept in the spare bedroom and I slept here. It was on the night table.”

He sustained my gaze without blinking.

“You surprise me, Watson.”

“I just wanted something to help me sleep.”

“That was seven years ago?”

I nodded. “I became gradually intrigued about the whole matter. About you.”

There was a long and bashful silence, during which he held my gaze with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“I… have been very confused, lately. I am still, to a certain degree,” said Holmes with pretended nonchalance, observing once more how his fingers drew invisible arabesque patterns on my chest.

“I’m sorry. I could not understand what was happening to me,” I admitted.

“Sometimes I thought it was all a silly fancy hovering through my brain. 'Pon my word, I have never felt so uncertain in my life. You're worse than the Grimpen Mire, Watson.”

“It’s all clear now.”

“Is it?”

“I know I love you.”

He looked flustered by my words.

“You don’t have to keep saying that.”

“It is the truth.”

He stopped his caressing, sat up on the bed and lighted a cigarette.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, suddenly full of concern.

“I told you. I don’t want this to be a travesty of one of your previous experiences.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don't... want to change. I cannot become soft and obedient and solicitous and embrace all those features of character of the fair sex!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t know. I told you I'm confused.”

“I don’t want you to change. I don’t want anything to change.” He stared at me with a pitiful disorientated expression. “You don’t want us to do this again?”

He laughed a mirthless laugh.

“How can you ask such a question?”

“Then, what is the problem?” I asked him, bewildered and scared. “Would you prefer I did not love you?”

“Can you, really? Love me?” he asked in a feeble broken voice.

“You don’t believe me!”  I cried in dismay. “But how could I lie to you?”

“This state of affairs is so new! You can change your mind.”

“Not for the world!” He had averted his face and I could not see his reaction, but his hand was trembling. He smoked his cigarette in silence for about a minute and then he dropped it on the floor.

“Can this be love, Watson?”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know! Ask them!” he exclaimed with an angry gesture.

“I did not write the rules.”

“But you can live under them. You have lived a happy life under them.”

“This is not the first time I have broken the rules with you. And happily so.”

“True,” he said, throwing me a sidelong glance.

“We are just doing it again. As always, for a good cause. For our happiness,” I exclaimed vehemently.

“And what does this make us? If not friends, if not a married couple? What are we?”

“Does it matter? That we don’t have a word for it? Does it matter?” I asked. And then I remembered one of our first conversations, fifteen years before. “There was not a word for your trade.”

“What?” He turned his head towards me with a lost expression in his eyes.

“There was not a word for your trade because you invented it. A consulting detective. That’s what you are. The only one in the world. Did it bother you then? Does it bother you now?”

He shook his head.

“Then… why?”

He remained silent, staring at me.

“You astonish me sometimes, John.”

I smiled at him and, after a few seconds, he smiled back. Then, in a swift movement, he snuggled down under the sheets, facing me. His austere grey eyes were shining with a strange light.

Deep in my heart, I knew that this was not the end of the discussion, because I feared that he was right, that this would be too different and too dangerous, and I doubted my own resolution and my own judgement. But I observed him in front me, looking sated and tired and content. Sherlock Holmes, with his magnificent brain and his propensity to blush. My intimate friend. My life companion. And I knew that in one way or another, we would always be together. Always.

“We must do something about your diet,” I informed him with a serious expression.

“My diet?”

“And you should take regular exercise when you are not engaged in a case.”

“I’m lost, Watson. What are you talking about?”

“Your hemorrhoids.”

Holmes made a face and kissed me on the lips as a sort of punishment.

“I warn you that I can be a little domineering,” he declared, closing his eyes.

“No! Are you serious?”

“Watson!” he protested, moistening his fingertips with saliva and reaching out his long thin hand to extinguish the candle.

 

 

 

The end.

 

* * *

Works cited:

Sins. _The Sins of the Cities of the Plain._ London, 1881. Print.

 

 


End file.
